We go to the woods no more, the laurels are cut down.
Figures of Love in low places, the group of Naiads
See shining again in the sun as cut out crystals,
The silent waters which flowed from where they were.
The laurels are cut down, and the stag, quiet in fear,
Trembles at the sound of the horn; we go no more to the woods,
Where playing children laughed, gathered in abandon—
Among the lilies of silver moistened by the sky's tears.
Here is the grass which is reaped and the laurels which are cut down.
We go to the woods no more, the laurels are cut down.

Where wide the forest bows are spread,
      Where Flora wakes with sylph and fay,
    Are crowns and garlands of men dead,
      All golden in the morning gay;
    Within this ancient garden gray
      Are clusters such as no man knows,
    Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway:
      _This is King Louis's orchard close_!

    These wretched folk wave overhead,
      With such strange thoughts as none may say;
    A moment still, then sudden sped,
      They swing in a ring and waste away.
    The morning smites them with her ray;
      They toss with every breeze that blows,
    They dance where fires of dawning play:
      _This is King Louis's orchard close_!

    All hanged and dead, they've summoned
      (With Hell to aid, that hears them pray)
    New legions of an army dread.
      Now down the blue sky flames the day;
    The dew dies off; the foul array
      Of obscene ravens gathers and goes,
    With wings that flap and beaks that flay:
      _This is King Louis's orchard close_!


    ENVOI

    Prince, where leaves murmur of the May,
      A tree of bitter clusters grows;
    The bodies of men dead are they!
      _This is King Louis's orchard close_!

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
      Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
    The west wind breathes upon them pure and cold,
      And still wolves dread Diana roving free,
      In secret woodland with her company.
    'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
    When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
      And first the moonrise breaks the dusky gray;
    Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,
      And through the dim wood, Dian thrids her way.

    With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold
      The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee;
    Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold
      Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be,
      The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy:
    Then, 'mid their mirth and laughter and affright,
    The sudden goddess enters, tall and white,
      With one long sigh for summers passed away;
    The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright,
      And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.

    She gleans her sylvan trophies; down the wold
      She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee,
    Mixed with the music of the hunting rolled,
      But her delight is all in archery,
      And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she
    More than the hounds that follow on the flight;
    The tall nymph draws a golden bow of might,
      And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay;
    She tosses loose her locks upon the night,
      And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.


    ENVOI

    Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite,
    The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight;
      Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray
    There is the mystic home of our delight,
      And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.