Lay like a limitless dream remote and strange,

The joy, the strife, the triumph and the mirth,

And the enchanted change;

And so he followed the sweet sound,

Till faith had traversed her appointed span,

And murmured as he pressed the sacred ground:

"It is the note of Pan!"

Now though no more by marsh or stream

Or dewy forest sounds the secret reed—

For Pan is gone—Ah yet, the infinite dream

Still lives for them that heed.

In April, when the turning year

Regains its pensive youth, and a soft breath

And amorous influence over marsh and mere

Dissolves the grasp of death,

To them that are in love with life,

Wandering like children with untroubled eyes,

Far from the noise of cities and the strife,

Strange flute-like voices rise

[13]

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