Low, but far heard,
Across the Phrygian forest goes a sound
That seems to hush the pines that moan all round.
Is it the weird
Wail of a she-wolf plundered of her own?
Or some maimed Satyr left to die alone?
Or has great Pan, in lonely places feared,
To some belated wretch his wild face shown?
Oh strong rough Pan,
God of lone spots where sudden awe o’erwhelms
Weak souls, but never mine--I love thy realms!
I love the wan
Half-leafless glens, which Autumn’s plaint repeat
From tree to tree; I love the shy fawn’s bleat;
The cry of lynx and wood-cat safe from man;
The fox’s short sharp bark from sure retreat.
The deep lone woods
Which men call silent teem with voice: I hear
Vague wails, low calls, weird notes, now far, now near.
The storm-born floods
That sweep the glens, the gurgling hurrying springs
Impart dim secrets, vague prophetic things;
The whispering winds awake strange wistful moods.
But hush, my flute! Apollo, strike thy strings!