English poem
To Harold Child
by Lionel Johnson (1867–1902)
The wind, hark! the wind in the angry woods: And low clouds purple the west: there broods Thunder, thunder; and rain will fall; Fresh fragrance cling to the wind from all Roses holding water wells, Laurels gleaming to the gusty air; Wilding mosses of the dells, Drenched hayfields, and dripping hedgerows fair.
The wind, hark! the wind dying again: The wind's voice matches the far-off main, In sighing cadences: Pan will wake, Pan in the forest, whose rich pipes make Music to the folding flowers, In the pure eve, where no hot spells are: Those be favourable hours Hymned by Pan beneath the shepherd star.