And lingering by each haunt he knew,

Of fount or sinuous stream or grassy marge,

He set the syrinx to his lips, and blew

A note divinely large;

[14]

And all around him on the wet

Cool earth the frogs came up, and with a smile

He took them in his hairy hands, and set

His mouth to theirs awhile,

And blew into their velvet throats;

And ever from that hour the frogs repeat

The murmur of Pan's pipes, the notes,

And answers strange and sweet;

And they that hear them are renewed

By knowledge in some god-like touch conveyed,

Entering again into the eternal mood,

Wherein the world was made.

THE MEADOW

Here when the cloudless April days begin,

And the quaint crows flock thicker day by day,

 Prev. P 13/70 next