A Pupil Of Pan

My love’s adorable and wise As heaven and the winds of spring: Go thou and gaze into her eyes-- Such scholars of the starry skies! --Canst marvel at the thing?

My love is like a bud that blows With fragrant honey in its heart: Go, watch her smile--Wouldst not suppose She from some warm, white, serious rose Had learned the happy art?

The thoughts she speaks are pearls unstrung That strew her fancy’s golden floor: Go listen--For, the woods among, She met with Pan, when very young, Who taught her all his lore.