The hills are resonant with soft humming

The hills are resonant with soft humming;It is a breeze that pauses, strummingOn the golden-wirèd starsThe deep full music to which wasThe song of life through ages sung;And soundlessly there weaves amongThe chords a star, a falling roseThat only this high garden grows;A falling hand with beauty dumbStricken by the hands that strumThe sky, is gone: yet still I seeThis hand swiftly and soundlesslySliding now across my eyesAs it then slid down the skies.

Soft the breeze, a steady flameCooled by the forest whence it came,Slipping across the dappled leaTo climb the dim walls of the sea;To comb the wave-ponies' manes backWhere the water shivers blackWith quiet depth and solitudeAnd licks the caverned sky. The woodStirs to a faint far mystic tone:The reed of Pan who, all aloneIn some rock-chilled silver dell,Thins the song of PhilomelSad in her dark dim echoed bowerWatching the far world bud and flower,Watching the moon in ether stilledWho, with her broad face humped and hilledIn sleep, dreams naked in the airWhile Philomel dreams naked here.

Clear and sad sounds Pan's thin strain,Dims in mystery, grows again;Mirrors the light limbs falling, dying,Soothes night voices calling, crying,Stills the winds' far seeking toneWhere fallow springs have died and grown;Hushes the nightbirds' jewelled criesAnd flames the shadows' subtletiesThrough endless labyrinthine wallsOf sounding corridors and hallsWhere sound and silence soundless keepTheir slumbrous noon. Sweet be their sleep.