Poems
Pan
The ancient years are living, and the songs—
The Maiden
And now thy splendour fills me and the great
And sacred glory of thy words—the air
Conceals thy breath—thy thoughts enclose the world.
This leaf I touch is a wise thought of thine;
And all the grass a-tremble 'neath my foot,
And all the eloquent soft speech of leaves
Is thine, and most inseparable from thee.
And sacred glory of thy words—the air
Conceals thy breath—thy thoughts enclose the world.
This leaf I touch is a wise thought of thine;
And all the grass a-tremble 'neath my foot,
And all the eloquent soft speech of leaves
Is thine, and most inseparable from thee.
Pan
Oh, Woman! from the gulf of banished Time
You called, and my sleep left me—and I came.
You called, and my sleep left me—and I came.
The Maiden
I am afraid, oh, Pan! have mercy on me!
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