Fiddler in an Auburn Wood

Along a wooded road,
Paved with auburn leaves,
I saw just in passing,
A fiddler in the trees.
Each note was stretched,
And with his bow was fetched,
A lulling and lilting sound.
I did not stop,
As if driven by the crop,
And I passed by his oaken crown.

On my way back,
I came along that way,
For to see if he was playing still,
Or if he'd gone away.
I'd much to do,
And his tune that grew,
Louder in my head,
Shook me still,
Each lilt and trill,
To the auburn forest lead.

Then at last I came upon,
Those broad and oaken boughs.
And though his perch was empty,
My imagination roused.
Was he a king,
Or some other thing
Of the forest that bade me leave?
Or perhaps a sign,
From something more asinine,
That hungered among the leaves.

And so I sit here by my lonesome,
A common thing for me.
Thinking of a fiddler green,
Among the auburn leaves.
The tune still raves,
And my hunger staves,
And through my head it prances.
I dream that he awakes me,
Never to forsake me,
Forever in his dances.