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Faun

 Haunched like a faun, he hooed
From grove of moon-glint and fen-frost
Until all owls in the twigged forest
Flapped black to look and brood
On the call this man made.
No sound but a drunken coot Lurching home along river bank.
Stars hung water-sunk, so a rank Of double star-eyes lit Boughs where those owls sat.
An arena of yellow eyes Watched the changing shape he cut, Saw hoof harden from foot, saw sprout Goat-horns.
Marked how god rose And galloped woodward in that guise.

by Sylvia Plath
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