XVII

On either hand the slender trees Of the Immortal Bow to the caressing breeze, Dance. And shake their shocks of silver light Against skies marbled greenish-white,

Save where, within a rent of blue, The tilted slip of moon glints through, Glittering upon us as we dance With a soft extravagance

Of limbs as blonde as autumn boughs, And gold locks floating from moony brows. While anguished Pan the pipes doth blow Fond and tremulous and low,

And anon the timbrel shakes. — It is his sudden heart that breaks For springs before the world grew old, Rich vales, and hill-tops fiery cold!—

He watches the scarce moving skies, The trees, the glittering revelries, The moon, the dancers lemon-clad: The world fantastical and sad.

The high-flung timbrels pulse and knock; We follow in a dancing flock, Touching each other's finger-tips, While from between our parted lips

The solemn melodies repeat The rhythm of our shaken feet. Then faster! and the round we trace, Hair flowing from elated face,

Eyes lit, breast bare, with lifted knees, And hands that toss as toss the trees.... And slow again... with cumulate motion, As the long draw and plunge of ocean

Bursting in a cloud of spray Up a white, deserted bay Of the sun-circled green Bermooths, Whose blistering sands the cool foam soothes....

Next the bewildering pipes may sing Some simple melody of spring, Whose cadences remember yet Sadly lost springs that we forget.

To which as dances April rain On a still pool where leans no stain, Save of the cloud's pure splendour spread Gloriously overhead,

Our fast-flickering feet shall twinkle, And our golden anklets tinkle, While fair arms in aery sleeves Shiver as the poplar's leaves.

And all the while shall Pan sit by And play, and pause, perhaps, to sigh, Viewing the scarce-moving skies, The hushed and glittering revelries,

The infant moon, the slender trees Silvering to the shivery breeze, The fair, lorn dancers lemon-clad: The world fantastical and sad.