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A cross the sky Two nestward doves. Touched with the afterglow, A rush-grown stream breaking its melody To play around a nymphs soft limbs: and lo! Where the myrrh-meadows amaranthine lie, Pan with his reeds, his jolly cheeks a-blow. Mellow the hills. A disc of golden frost. The slow moon mounting through a coronal Of olives, now in amber clouds is lost, Now breaks to draw a circled interval A bout an oak, against whose gnarled trunk mossed Leans Pan, cross-legged, imperturbable. Pan, with his satyr hooves and pointed ears. His weazened face, and wicked little eye. Eld with the evil of a thousand years Ah me! so soon as his soft threnody She lists, forgot will be her wild, shy fears In the sweet strains he plays so leisurely.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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