Moss And Fern

Where rise the brakes of bramble there, Wrapped with the trailing rose, Through cane where waters ramble, there Where deep the green cress grows, Who knows? Perhaps, unseen of eyes of man, Hides Pan.

Perhaps the creek, whose pebbles make A foothold for the mint, May bear,--where soft its trebles make Confession,--some vague hint-- (The print, Goat-hoofed, of one who lightly ran)-- Of Pan.

Where, in the hollow of the hills Ferns deepen to the knees, What sounds are those above the hills, And now among the trees?-- No breeze!-- The syrinx, haply, none may scan, Of Pan.

In woods where waters break upon The hush like some soft word; Where sun-shot shadows shake upon The moss, who has not heard-- No bird!-- The flute, as breezy as a fan, Of Pan?

Far in, where mosses lay for us Still carpets, cool and plush; Where bloom and branch and ray for us Swoon in the noonday flush, The hush May sound the satyr hoof a span Of Pan.

In woods where thrushes sing to us, And brooks dance sparkling heels; Where wild aromas cling to us, And all our worship kneels,-- Who steals Upon us, haunch and face of tan, But Pan?