first part of a wip tribute to old school pastoral poetry. alexander pope, virgil's eclogues, things of that nature.

>Now Dionoda, couched within the fold
>Where thistles bloomed, and fleecy she-goats strolled,
>Woke up; drunk gods the summer sunlight shed,
>Deep she had slept upon her natural bed,
>The empty wineskin in her one hand clasped,
>The other o'er her aching eyes she cast.
>Why feels she so amiss beneath this vale?
>Its tufts of thistle and its she-goats pale,
>The dawning sun which gods above provide,
>Nor touched her heart, nor eased the dread inside.
>For she had dreamt (and goatherds trust such signs),
>As she stepped slowly through those unknown pines,
>Across the path a mangled goat-corpse lay,
>A bloody head it raised, and seemed to say:
>'Goatherd, attend. The primal powers bid
>That I inform you what the Fates had hid.
>See my red fur; my downy throat cut through
>Will seem like mercy when they're through with you.