II. MOSS AND FERN

Where rise the brakes of bramble there,

Wrapped with the trailing rose;

Through cane where waters ramble, there

Where deep the sword-grass grows,

Who knows?

Perhaps, unseen of eyes of man,

Hides Pan.

Perhaps the creek, whose pebbles make

A foothold for the mint,

May bear,— where soft its trebles make

Confession,— some vague hint,

( The print,

Goat-hoofed, of one who lightly ran,)

Of Pan.

Where, in the hollow of the hills

Ferns deepen to the knees,

What sounds are those above the hills,

And now among the trees?—

No breeze!—

The syrinx, haply, none may scan,

Of Pan.

In woods where waters break upon

The hush like some soft word;

Where sun-shot shadows shake upon

The moss, who has not heard —

No bird!—

The flute, as breezy as a fan,

Of Pan?

Far in, where mosses lay for us

Still carpets, cool and plush;

Where bloom and branch and ray for us

Sleep, waking with a rush —

The hush

But sounds the satyr hoof a span

Of Pan.

O woods,— whose thrushes sing to us,

Whose brooks dance sparkling heels;

Whose wild aromas cling to us,—

While here our wonder kneels,

Who steals

Upon us, brown as bark with tan,

But Pan?