Pan.

1         Haunter of green intricacies,         Where the sunlight's amber laces             Deeps of darkest violet;         Where the ugly Satyr chases         Shining Dryads, fair as Graces,             Whose lithe limbs with dew are wet;         Piper in hid mountain places,         Where the blue-eyed Oread braces             Winds which in her sweet cheeks set         Of Aurora rosy traces,         Whiles the Faun from myrtle mazes             Watcheth with an eye of jet:         What art thou and these dim races,         Thou, O Pan! of many faces,             Who art ruler yet?         2         Tell me, piper, have I ever         Heard thy hollow syrinx quiver             Trickling music in the trees?         Where dark hazel copses shiver,         Have I heard its dronings sever             The warm silence, or the bees?         Ripple murmurings, that never         Could be born of fall or river,             Whisperings and subtleties,         Melodies so very clever,         None can doubt that thou, the giver,             Master Nature's keys.         3         What glad awes of storm are given         Thy mad power, which has striven,--             Where the craggy forests glare,--         In wild mockery, when Heaven         Splits with thunder wedges driven             Red through night and rainy air!         What art thou, whose presence, even         While its fear the heart hath riven,             Heals it with a prayer?