Comments about Robin Hyde
The little pools of starlight splash
Against the poplars’ slender lines;
The moon is like a golden comb,
Caught in the tresses of the pines.
Go quietly, lest unaware
You find the leafless path that leads
To where an older god than God
Makes cruel music through the reeds.
The lilies float like slender hands
Towards a satyr-trampled brink.
With crowns of oakleaves in their hair
The shouting fauns come down to drink.
Not Innocency’s self shall walk
These breathless ways and shall not see
The wine-stained lips and dangerous eyes,