Or dog-wood blossoms snowing on the lawn?

IV

Now't is a Satyr piping serenades

On a slim reed. Now Pan and Faun advance

Beneath green-hollowed roofs of forest glades,

Their feet gone mad with music: now, perchance,

Sylvanus sleeping, on whose leafy trance

The Nymphs stand gazing in dim ambuscades

Of sun-embodied perfume.—Myth, Romance,

Where'er I turn, reach out bewildering arms,

Compelling me to follow. Day and night

I hear their voices and behold the light

Of their divinity that still evades,

And still allures me in a thousand forms.

Genius Loci 

Genius 

Loci

I

What wood-god, on this water's mossy curb,

Lost in reflections of earth's loveliness,

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