Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind;
And the white dew on the new-bladed grass,
Just piercing the dark earth, hung silently;
And there was more which I remember not:
But on the shadows of the morning clouds,
Athwart the purple mountain slope, was written
Follow, O, follow! as they vanished by,
And on each herb, from which Heaven's dew had fallen,
The like was stamped, as with a withering fire,
A wind arose among the pines; it shook
The clinging music from their boughs, and then
Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell of ghosts,
Were heard: Oh, follow, follow, follow me!
And then I said, "Panthea, look on me."
But in the depth of those beloved eyes
Still I saw, follow, follow!
Echo.
Follow, follow!
Pan. The crags, this clear spring morning, mock our voices,
As they were spirit-tongued.
Asia. It is some being
Around the crags. What fine clear sounds! Oh, list!
