MID-MAY

Hand clamped to desk,

And eyes on task undone,

I see a meadow pool,

With shaken willows silvering.

O, gods that trouble me,

Wherefore, wherefore?—

Pan is at the door.

An arabesque

Of sifted sun

And forest star-grass, cool

With shadows tunnelling:

Witch-work that tauntingly

Webs my bare floor:

Ah, Pan is at the door.

I'm civilized,

And in my veins

The mountain brook is still

As water in a jar;

But oh, the heart hill-born,

It paineth sore,

For Pan is at the door.

Ye sacrificed

Of earth, what rains

Have wept their will

And drowned your rebel star,

That ye should sit forlorn,

Telling Greed's score,

When Pan is at the door?