The whole wood feels thee, the whole air fears thee: but fear So deep, so dim, so sacred, is wellnigh sweet. For the light that hangs and broods on the woodlands here, Intense, invasive, intolerant, imperious, and meet To lighten the works of thine hands and the ways of thy feet, Is hot with the fire of the breath of thy life, and dear As hope that shrivels or shrinks not for frost or heat. Thee, thee the supreme dim godhead, approved afar, Perceived of the soul and conceived of the sense of man, We scarce dare love, and we dare not fear: the star We call the sun, that lit us when life began To brood on the world that is thine by his grace for a span, Conceals and reveals in the semblance of things that are Thine immanent presence, the pulse of thy heart's life, Pan. The fierce mid noon that wakens and warms the snake Conceals thy mercy, reveals thy wrath: and again The dew-bright hour that assuages the twilight brake Conceals thy wrath and reveals thy mercy: then Thou art fearful only for evil souls of men That feel with nightfall the serpent within them wake, And hate the holy darkness on glade and glen. Yea, then we know not and dream not if ill things be, Or if aught of the work of the wrong of the world be thine. We hear not the footfall of terror that treads the sea, We hear not the moan of winds that assail the pine: We see not if shipwreck reign in the storm's dim shrine; If death do service and doom bear witness to thee We see not,--know not if blood for thy lips be wine. But in all things evil and fearful that fear may scan, As in all things good, as in all things fair that fall, We know thee present and latent, the lord of man; In the murmuring of doves, in the clamouring of winds that call And wolves that howl for their prey; in the midnight's pall, In the naked and nymph-like feet of the dawn, O Pan, And in each life living, O thou the God who art all. Smiling and singing, wailing and wringing of hands, Laughing and weeping, watching and sleeping, still Proclaim but and prove but thee, as the shifted sands Speak forth and show but the strength of the sea's wild will That sifts and grinds them as grain in the storm-wind's mill. In thee is the doom that falls and the doom that stands: The tempests utter thy word, and the stars fulfil. Where Etna shudders with passion and pain volcanic That rend her heart as with anguish that rends a man's, Where Typho labours, and finds not his thews Titanic, In breathless torment that ever the flame's breath fans, Men felt and feared thee of old, whose pastoral clans Were given to the charge of thy keeping; and soundless panic Held fast the woodland whose depths and whose heights were Pan's.