Out of the mid-wood’s twlight, into the meadow’s dawn,

Ivory-limbed and brown-eyed, flashes my Faun!

He skips through the copses singing, and his shadow dances along,

And I know not which I should follow, shadow or song!

O Hunter, snare me his shadow! O Nightingale, catch me his strain!

Else moonstruck with music and madness, I track him in vain.

By Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)