What evil may soon betide him,

Or late, if thou smite not soon,

Pan.

Me

The sound of thy flute, that flatters

The woods as they smile and sigh,

Charmed fast as it charms thy satyrs,

Can charm no faster than I

Thee.

Fast

Thy music may charm the splendid

Wide woodland silence to sleep

With sounds and dreams of thee blended

And whispers of waters that creep

Past.

Here

The spell of thee breathes and passes

And bids the heart in me pause,

Hushed soft as the leaves and the grasses

Are hushed if the storm's foot draws

 Prev. P 54/134 next