What honey in the year's last flowers can hide, These little yellow butterflies may know: With falling leaves they waver to and fro, Or on the swinging tops of asters ride. But I am weary of the summer's pride And sick September's simulated show: Why do the colder winds delay to blow And bring the pleasant hours that we abide; To curtained alcove and sweet household talks, Or sweeter silence by our flickering Lars, Returning late from autumn evening walks Upon the frosty hills, while reddening Mars Hangs low between the withered mullein stalks, And upward throngs the host of winter stars? 

These little yellow butterflies may know:

With falling leaves they waver to and fro,

And sick September's simulated show:

Why do the colder winds delay to blow

Or sweeter silence by our flickering Lars,

Upon the frosty hills, while reddening Mars

And upward throngs the host of winter stars?

 

 

   [Greek: Tò Pan] 

 The little creek which yesterday I saw Ooze through the sedges, and each brackish vein That sluiced the marsh, now filled and then again Sucked dry to glut the sea's unsated maw, All ebb and flow by the same rhythmic law That times the beat of the Atlantic main— They also fastened to the swift moon's train By unseen cords that no less strongly draw. So, poet, may thy life's small tributary Threading some bitter marsh, obscure, alone, Feel yet one pulse with the broad estuary That bears an emperor's fleets through half a zone: May wait upon the same high luminary And pitch its voice to the same ocean's tone. 

Ooze through the sedges, and each brackish vein

That sluiced the marsh, now filled and then again

That times the beat of the Atlantic main—

They also fastened to the swift moon's train

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