Is peace not one with light in the deep green glades
⁠Where summer at noonday slumbers? Is peace not here?

The tall thin stems of the firs, and the roof sublime
⁠That screens from the sun the floor of the steep still wood,
Deep, silent, splendid, and perfect and calm as time,
⁠Stand fast as ever in sight of the night they stood,
⁠When night gave all that moonlight and dewfall could.
The dense ferns deepen, the moss glows warm as the thyme:
⁠The wild heath quivers about me: the world is good.

Is it Pan's breath, fierce in the tremulous maidenhair,
⁠That bids fear creep as a snake through the woodlands, felt
In the leaves that it stirs not yet, in the mute bright air,
⁠In the stress of the sun? For here has the great God dwelt: