LINES WRITTEN FOR A FIGURE CARVED BY PHILIP SMITH

Wild creature of the woods whose merry hoof
Has trampled many a fine and tender blade
Amid the forest where remote, aloof,
Thou sportest in nymph-haunted sylvan glade.
Anon, with reed against thy mirthful lips,
Pan's music thou evokest, shrill and clear,
Until the flying bird, affrighted, dips
Her far spread wings that she may pause and hear
What message she may find of swift alarm
In your quick note; but soon again she sweeps
The broad horizon without thought of harm,
Seeing thee lie there while Dame Nature keeps
Her tender watch above thy graceful rest,
Holding thy form against her loving breast.