Tell me, busy, busy glade, Shifting aye in light and shade, Are the dryads peeping forth, More in wonder than in wrath, Each beneath her own dear tree Parting her hair that she may see How queens put on their sovereignty? All are come of Pan's own race, Nymphs and satyrs fill the place, Necks outstretched and ears a-twitching, That Pan may know of all this witching. Heedless stumble the goatfeet Till four-footed things retreat. Cries of Ah! and Ay! and Eh! Scare the forest birds away, And their notes that rang so clear At dawn, you now shall rarely hear: Only a robin here and there Pitches high his trembling voice In a challenge to rejoice. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! How two notes Stolen from all woodland throats Make the satyrs stand like stone, Waiting for Pan to call his own! How the couching dryads seem To root themselves as in a dream, And the naiads, wan and whist, To melt into an evening mist! Tell me, silent, silent glade, All in light that once was shade, All in shade that once was light, How went the creatures from my sight? Where are the shapes that turned to stone, And my tree that reigned alone? Red and watchful, still and bare, With a thousand spears in air, Stands the beech that you would bind Unlawfully to human mind. Gone is every woodland elf To the mighty god himself. Mortal! You yourself are fast! Doubt not Pan shall come at last To put a leer within your eyes That pry into his mysteries. He shall touch the busy brain Lest it ever teem again; Point the ears and twist the feet, Till by day you dare not meet Men, or in the failing light Mutter more than, Friend, good-night! Tell me, whispering, whispering glade, Am I eager or afraid? Do I wish the god to come? What shall I say if he be dumb? Tell me, wherefore hiss and sigh Those shrivelled leaves? Has Pan gone by? Why do your thousand pools of light Gaze like eyes that fade at night? Pan has but twain, Pan's eyes are bright! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! See, yon stakes Gape and grin like fangs of snakes; Not snakes nor hounds are mouthing thus; Pan himself is watching us. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Now The god is breasting the hill-brow. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Pan is near: Joy runs trembling back to fear. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! All my blood Knocks through the heart whose every thud Chokes me, blinds me, drains my madness. As one half-drowned, I feel life's gladness Ooze from each pore. Towards the sun Downhill I reel that fain would run. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Thornless seem Briars that part as in a dream. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Hazel-boughs Hurt not though they blood the brows.