Xcvi

Hark, my lover, it is spring! On the wind a faint far call Wakes a pang within my heart, Unmistakable and keen.

At the harbour mouth a sail Glimmers in the morning sun, And the ripples at her prow Whiten into crumbling foam,

As she forges outward bound For the teeming foreign ports. Through the open window now, Hear the sailors lift a song!

In the meadow ground the frogs With their deafening flutes begin,— The old madness of the world In their golden throats again.

Little fifers of live bronze, Who hath taught you with wise lore To unloose the strains of joy, When Orion seeks the west?

And you feathered flute-players, Who instructed you to fill All the blossomy orchards now With melodious desire?

I doubt not our father Pan Hath a care of all these things. In some valley of the hills Far away and misty-blue,

By quick water he hath cut A new pipe, and set the wood To his smiling lips, and blown, That earth’s rapture be restored.

And those wild Pandean stops Mark the cadence life must keep. O my lover, be thou glad; It is spring in Hellas now.