Poems
And draw me to them, then, oh, Pan, its strength
May wither and its ardent breath grow nought
But sleep among all sleeping human things.
May wither and its ardent breath grow nought
But sleep among all sleeping human things.
Pan
Go not, lest the sad music of the world
Compel your spirit utterly from me.
Compel your spirit utterly from me.
The Maiden
No music, Pan, in all the world is strong
To dim thy music in me. I whose life
First shaped itself upon thy lips—a note
Conceived of music growing visible
From very excess of rapture. (Great art thou
To bind thy singing round all gods and men.
Hast thou forgotten how the god of song,
The marvellous Apollo, lay all day,
Motionless, dazed with visions, whilst thy notes
To dim thy music in me. I whose life
First shaped itself upon thy lips—a note
Conceived of music growing visible
From very excess of rapture. (Great art thou
To bind thy singing round all gods and men.
Hast thou forgotten how the god of song,
The marvellous Apollo, lay all day,
Motionless, dazed with visions, whilst thy notes
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