Beheld yourselves eternal and divine,
ME, underneath the darkness visible
And calm as ocean when the cold Moon smoothes
The palpitating waves without a sound,—
Me, ye saw sleeping in a dream, white-hair'd,
Low-lidded, gentle, aged, and like the shade
Of the eternal self-unconsciousness
Out of whose law YE had awaken'd-gods
Fair-statured, self-apparent, marvellous,
Dove-eyed, and inconceivably divine.
Over the ledges of high mountains, thro'
The fulgent streams of dawn, soft-pillowed
On downy clouds that swam in reddening streaks
Like milk wherein a crimson wine-drop melts,
And far beyond the dark of vague low lands,
Uprose Apollo, shaking from his locks
Ambrosial dews, and making as he rose
A muffled murmur as of numerous bees,
A whisper such as low winds weave in June.
Wherefore the darkness in whose depth I sat
Wonder'd thro' newly-woven boughs the light,
Twinkling like dew-drops on a lion's mane,
Crept onward to mine eyelids unaware,
And fluttering o'er my wrinkled length of limb
Like a great butterfly above a snake,
Disturb'd me,—and I stirr'd, and open'd eyes,
Then lifted up my eyes to see the light,
And saw the light, and, seeing not myself,
Smiled!
Thereupon, ye gods, the woods and lawns.
Grew populously glad with living things.
A rod of stone beneath my heel grew bright,
Writhing to life, and hissing drew swift coils.
O'er the upspringing grass; above my head
A birch unbound her silver-shimmering hair,
Brightening to the gurgling notes of birds;
And far dim mountains hollow'd out themselves
To give forth streams, till down the mountain-sides
The loosen'd streams ran flowing. Then a voice
Came from the darkness as it roll'd away
Under Apollo's sunshine-sandall'd foot,
And the vague voice shriek'd "Pan!" and woods and
Sky-kissing mountains and the courteous vales,
Cried "Pan!" and earth's reverberating roots
Gave forth an answer, "Pan!" and stooping down
His fiery eyes to scorch me from my trance,
Unto the ravishment of his soft lyre
"Pan !" sang Apollo: when the wide world heard, Brightening brightlier, till thro' murmurous leaves Pale wood-nymphs peep'd around me whispering "Pan!"
And sweeter faces floated in the stream
That gurgled to my ankle, whispering "Pan!"
And, clinging to the azure gown of air
That floated earthward dropping scented dews,
A hundred lesser spirits panted "Pan !"
And, far along an opening forest-glade,
Beating a green lawn with alternate feet,
"Pan!" cried the satyrs leaping. Then all sounds
Were hush'd for coming of a sweeter sound:
From the spilt chrism of the dawn I drank
Motion and thought and music unaware,
And rising up, with outstretch'd arms, I, Pan,
Look'd eastward, saw, and knew myself a god.
It was not well, ye gods, it was not well!
Star-guiders, cloud-compellers-ye who stretch
Ambrosia-dripping limbs, great-statured, bright,
Milky and fair-proportion'd, in a place
Thick-carpeted with grass as soft as sleep;
Who with mild glorious eyes of liquid depth
Subdue to perfect peace and calm eterne
The mists and vapours of the nether-world,
That curl up dimly from the nether-world
And make a roseate mist wherein ye lie
Soft-lidded, broad-foreheaded, stretch'd supine
In awful contemplations-ye great gods,
Who meditate your souls and find them fair—
Ye heirs of odorous rest-it was not well!—
For, with Apollo sheer above, I, Pan,
In whom a gracious godhead lived and moved,
Rose, glorious-hearted, and look'd down; and lo,
Goat-legs, goat-thighs, goat-feet, uncouth and rude,
And, higher, the breast and bowels of a beast,
Huge thews and twisted sinews swoll'n like cords,
And thick integument of bark-brown skin-
A hideous apparition masculine !
But in my veins a new and natural youth,
In my great veins a music as of boughs
When the cool aspen-fingers of the Rain
Feel for the eyelids of the earth in spring,
In every vein quick life; within my soul
The meekness of some sweet eternity
Forgot; and in mine eyes soft violet-thoughts
That widen'd in the eyeball unto the light,
And peep'd, and trembled chilly back to the soul
Like leaves of violets closing.
My honey-flowing rivers, by my woods
Grape-growing, by my mountains down whose sides.
The slow flocks thread like silver streams at eve,
By the grey comfort in the eyes of Zeus
When the soft murmur of my peaceful dales
Blows like a gust of perfume on his cheek,
There where he reigns, cloud-shrouded-by meek lives That smoothe themselves like wings of doves and brood Over immortal themes for love of me
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