If I were free, then I would go

If I were free, then I would goWhere the first chill spring winds blow,Wrapping a light shocked mountain's browWith shrilling tongues, and swirling now,And fiery upward flaming, leapFrom craggy teeth above each deepCold and wet with silence. HereI fly before the streaming yearAlong the fierce cold mountain topsTo which the sky runs down and stops;And with the old moon watching meLeaping and shouting joyouslyAlong each crouching dark abyssThrough which waters rush and hiss,I whirl the echoes west and eastTo hover each copse where lurks the beast,Silence, till they shatter backAcross the ravine's smoky crack.

Here Pan's sharp hoofed feet have pressedHis message on the chilly crest,Saying—Follow where I lead,For all the world springs to my reedWoven up and woven down,Thrilling all the sky and groundWith shivering heat and quivering cold;To pierce and burst the swollen mold;Shrilling in each waiting brake:Come, ye living, stir and wake!

As the tumbling sunlight fallsSpouting down the craggy wallsTo hiss upon the frozen rocksThat dot the hills in crouching flocks,So I plunge in some deep valeWhere first violets, shy and pale,Appear, and spring with tear-stained cheeksPeeps at me from the neighboring brakes,Gathering her torn draperies upFor flight if I cast my eyes up.Swallows dart and skimming flyLike arrows painted on the sky,And the twanging of the stringIs the faint high quick cryingThat they, downward shooting, spinThrough the soundless swelling din.Dogwood shines through thin trees thereLike jewels in a woman's hair;A sudden brook hurries alongSinging its reverted song,Flashing in white frothèd shocksAbout upstanding polished rocks;Slender shoots draw sharp and clearAnd white withes shake as though in fearUpon the quick stream's melted snowThat seems to dance rather than flow.

Then on every hand awakesFrom the dim and silent brakesThe breathing of the growing things,The living silence of all springsTo come and that have gone before;And upon a woodland floorI watch the sylvans dance till dawnWhile the brooding spring looks on.The spring is quick with child, and sad;And in her dampened hair sits cladWatching the immortal danceTo the world's throbbing dissonanceThat Pan's watchful shrill pipes blowOf the fiery days that goLike wine across the world; then high:His pipes weave magic on the skyShrill with joy and pain of birthOf another spring on earth.