From his book, A History of Western Philosophy, Russell recites a song supposedly sung by an ancient Bacchic cult. It reminds me of Autumn, even though it's about some crazed pagan sex cult.


Will they ever come to me, ever again,
The long, long dances,
On through the dark till the dim stars wane?
Shall I feel the dew on my throat and the stream
Of wind in my hair? Shall our white feet gleam
In the dim expanses?
O feet of the fawn to the greenwood fled,
Alone in the grass and the loveliness;
Leap of the hunted, no more in dread,
Beyond the snares and the deadly press.
Yet a voice and a fear and a haste of hounds,
O wildly labouring, fiercely fleet,
Onward yet by the river and glen—
Is it joy or terror, ye storm-swift feet?
To the dear lone lands untroubled of men,
Where no voice sounds, and amid the shadowy green
The little things of the woodland live unseen.


Jon