Hark! a sound comes from the brake

Hark! a sound comes from the brakeAnd I glide nearer like a snakeTo peer into its leafy deepsWhere like a child the spring still sleeps.Upon a chill rock gray and oldWhere the willows' simple foldFalls, an unstirred curtain, Pan—As he sat since the world began—Stays and broods upon the sceneBeside a hushèd pool where leanHis own face and the bending skyIn shivering soundless amity.

Pan sighs, and raises to his lipsHis pipes, down which his finger-tipsWander lovingly; then lowAnd clearly simple does he blowA single thin clear melodyThat pauses, spreading liquidly,While the world stands sharp and muteWaiting for his magic flute.A sudden strain, silver and shrillAs narrow water down a hill,Splashes rippling as though drawnIn shattered quicksilver onThe willow curtain, and through whichIt wanders without halt or hitchInto silent meadows; whenIt pauses, breathing, and againClimbs as though to reach the skyLike the soaring silver cryOf some bird. A note picks out,A silver moth that whirrs aboutA single rose, then settles lowOn the sorrowful who goAlong a willowed green-stained poolTo lie and sleep within its coolVirginity.

Ah, the worldAbout which mankind's dreams are furledLike a cocoon, thin and cold,And yet that is never old!Earth's heart burns with winter snowsAs fond and tremulous Pan blowsFor other springs and cold and sadAs this; and sitting garment-cladIn sadness with dry stricken eyesBent to the unchanging skies,Pan sighs and broods upon the sceneBeside this hushèd pool where leanHis own face and the bending skyIn shivering soundless amity.