A silver birch-tree like a sacred maid Set with a guard of stalwart hemlocks round, Whose low-toned airs stole by with sighing sound, Stirred, shivering slightly, as if half afraid Where the black shadow crept along the ground. Breathless she stood,—as one whose work is stayed, But threads her shuttle while her thought has strayed To times when wild fauns haunted all the rills, And piped among the deep noon-checkered hills Till all the land with song was overlaid. O Pan, dear Pan! come forth from out the dark Of those dream days; outsing our thrush and lark Till laughter-loving youths from windowsills Shall whisper, “Hark! who sang that love-song? Hark!”
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