The Flight

by Sara Teasdale

　　

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All through the deep blue night The fountain sang alone; It sang to the drowsy heart Of the satyr carved in stone. The fountain sang and sang, But the satyr never stirred Only the great white moon In the empty heaven heard. The fountain sang and sang While on the marble rim The milk-white peacocks slept, And their dreams were strange and dim. Bright dew was on the grass, And on the ilex, dew, The dreamy milk-white birds Were all a-glisten, too. The fountain sang and sang The things one cannot tell; The dreaming peacocks stirred And the gleaming dew-drops fell.

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