The poem
Here down this very way, Here only yesterday King Faun went leaping. He sang, with careless shout Hurling his name about; He sang, with oaken stock His steps from rock to rock In safety keeping, "Here Faun is free, Here Faun is free!"
Today against yon pine, Forlorn yet still divine, King Faun leant weeping. "They drank my holy brook, My strawberries they took, My private path they trod." Loud wept the desolate God, Scorn on scorn heaping, "Faun, what is he? Faun, what is he?"