 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
PAN OF THE BEECH WOODS.
Down there in the old beech woods,
Where the screech-owl sits and broods,
And the rocks fume with the creek,
Each a foam-fleck on its cheek,
Pan keeps company with my moods,
Running when a foot intrudes—
Goat-foot Pan who oft eludes.
Where the screech-owl sits and broods,
And the rocks fume with the creek,
Each a foam-fleck on its cheek,
Pan keeps company with my moods,
Running when a foot intrudes—
Goat-foot Pan who oft eludes.
180
Once I heard him, where he sat
On a ferned and mossy mat,
Whistling like a thrush or chat.
On a ferned and mossy mat,
Whistling like a thrush or chat.
I, you see, had quit my plow—
Couldn't work that day somehow—
And I followed—seemed to me
Dronings of a pipe, or bee—
Couldn't tell you which, I vow;
But it led from bough to bough
To the place we're standing now.
Couldn't work that day somehow—
And I followed—seemed to me
Dronings of a pipe, or bee—
Couldn't tell you which, I vow;
But it led from bough to bough
To the place we're standing now.
There I watched him all that day,
While he piped and danced away,
With the forest-things at play.
While he piped and danced away,
With the forest-things at play.
In the creek I saw a fin
Wink; and then a terrapin
Lift its head. A toad hopped out,
Croaked, and crept Pan's feet about;
He quit piping; took it in
His brown hand and set its chin
To his pipe and said, “Begin!”
Wink; and then a terrapin
Lift its head. A toad hopped out,
Croaked, and crept Pan's feet about;
He quit piping; took it in
His brown hand and set its chin
To his pipe and said, “Begin!”
And the toad began to blow
Music such as quavers low
In the marsh when dusk comes slow.
Music such as quavers low
In the marsh when dusk comes slow.
Nearing sunset as I drew
Home, I glimpsed him, peering through
Bush and brake; he seemed to stand
With his Pan-pipes in one hand,
Beckoning with the other to
Something in the trees, that flew
Down and muttered, “Who are you?”
Home, I glimpsed him, peering through
Bush and brake; he seemed to stand
With his Pan-pipes in one hand,
181
Something in the trees, that flew
Down and muttered, “Who are you?”
And Pan chuckled; set his oat
To the owlet's feathered throat,
Bade it blow a wildwood note.
To the owlet's feathered throat,
Bade it blow a wildwood note.
As it blew I saw him smile;
Then he said, “You've had your trial!
You can hunt now. Twilight comes.
I must tune the beetle drums
And each cricket-harp and viol.”
Then he went. Each woodland aisle
Droned his passage. After while,
Then he said, “You've had your trial!
You can hunt now. Twilight comes.
I must tune the beetle drums
And each cricket-harp and viol.”
Then he went. Each woodland aisle
Droned his passage. After while,
Far away upon a hill,
Heard him piping, “Whippoorwill!”
Listen! you may hear him still.
Heard him piping, “Whippoorwill!”
Listen! you may hear him still.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |