Madison Cawein

The wind makes moan, the water runneth chill;      I hear the nymphs go crying through the brake;     And roaming mournfully from hill to hill      The maenads all are silent for his sake!     He loved thy pipe, O wreathed and piping Pan!      So play'st thou sadly, lone within thine hollow;     He was thy blood, if ever mortal man,      Therefore thou weepest - even thou, Apollo!     But O, the grieving of the Little Things,      Above the pipe and lyre, throughout the woods!     The beating of a thousand airy wings,      The cry of all the fragile multitudes!     The moth flits desolate, the tree-toad calls,      Telling the sorrow of the elf and fay;     The cricket, little harper of the walls,      Puts up his harp - hath quite forgot to play!     And risen on these winter paths anew,      The wilding blossoms make a tender sound;     The purple weed, the morning-glory blue,      And all the timid darlings of the ground!     Here, here the pain is sharpest! For he walked      As one of these - and they knew naught of fear,     But told him daily happenings and talked      Their lovely secrets in his list'ning ear!     Yet we do bid them grieve, and tell their grief;      Else were they thankless, else were all untrue;     O wind and stream, O bee and bird and leaf,      Mourn for your poet, with a long adieu!