What mad pursuit?
What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild
ectasy?
--John
Keats
The goose-girl walks
with a rolling rhyme
Tossing her fowl-dappled scent behind
That teases and tugs a gander lust
In the young swart satyr.
Follow her up to the
ticklish spring
To water her goslings and wash her white
skin
Where hidden by hawthorne, he honks in the
bower
Till like the bee she comes seeking the
flower
"O goosey sweet goosey I'll find you" she
warns
"I'm here dear" the sly darkling goat-boy
responds
Grabbing the goose-girl by her butter
arm;
The moment of feathers
the moment of horn
The hot little goat rhythms quick in the
morn:
A lost flock of geese
wander off quite forlorn.
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