At noon and in the quiet of the night

From every watery waste; and in that hour

The same strange spell, the same unnamed delight,

Enfolds them in its power.

An old-world joyousness supreme,

The warmth and glow of an immortal balm,

The mood-touch of the gods, the endless dream,

The high lethean calm.

They see, wide on the eternal way,

The services of earth, the life of man;

And, listening to the magic cry they say:

"It is the note of Pan!"

For, long ago, when the new strains

Of hostile hymns and conquering faiths grew keen,

And the old gods from their deserted fanes,

Fled silent and unseen,

So, too, the goat-foot Pan, not less

Sadly obedient to the mightier hand,

Cut him new reeds, and in a sore distress

Passed out from land to land;

 Prev. P 12/70 next