Xxix

Ah, what am I but a torrent, Headstrong, impetuous, broken, Like the spent clamour of waters In the blue canyon?

Ah, what art thou but a fern-frond, Wet with blown spray from the river, Diffident, lovely, sequestered, Frail on the rock-ledge?

Yet, are we not for one brief day, While the sun sleeps on the mountain, Wild-hearted lover and loved one, Safe in Pan’s keeping?