"WHAT voice is that I hear
⁠Crying across the pool?"
" It is the voice of Pan you hear,
Crying his sorceries shrill and clear,
⁠In the twilight dim and cool."

"What song is it he sings,
⁠Echoing from afar;
While the sweet swallow bends her wings.
Filling the air with twitterings,
⁠Beneath the brightening star?"

The woodman answered me,
⁠His faggot on his back:—
"Seek not the face of Pan to see;
Flee from his clear note summoning thee
⁠To darkness deep and black!"
 
"He dwells in thickest shade.
⁠Piping his notes forlorn
Of sorrow never to be allayed;
Turn from his coverts sad
⁠Of twilight unto morn!"

The woodman passed away
⁠Along the forest path;
His ax shone keen and grey
In the last beams of day:
⁠And all was still as death: -—

Only Pan singing sweet
⁠Out of Earth's fragrant shade;
I dreamed his eyes to meet,
And found but shadow laid
⁠Before my tired feet.

Comes no more dawn to me,
⁠Nor bird of open skies.
Only his woods' deep gloom I see
⁠Till, at the end of all, shall rise,
Afar and tranquilly,
Death's stretching sea.