XII

The pine, rough-bearded Pan of the woods

Whispered in my ear his sleepy-sweet song.

Like liquid fire it ran through my veins.

Thus he piped: Sad, lonely son of the woods,

Lie down in the long still grass and sleep,

Ere the dawn has hidden her swelling breasts,

Ere the morning has covered her massive flanks,

With the flame-coloured mantle of noon.

Lie down in the dewless grass nor awake

To see whether afternoon has hurried in

From the rim of her purple robe dropping dim flowers

Golden flowers with pollen-dusty cups,

Flowers of silence. Heed not though eve

Should sail, a grey swan, in the pool of the sky,

Spreading low ripples. Heed these not!

Only awake when slim twilight

Plunges her body in the last blown spray of the sun!

Awake, then, for twilight and dawn are your day:

Therefore lie down in the long dim grass and sleep,

And I will blow my low pipes over you.