I ran to find them at the dancing-green. The grass had sprung untrampled by their feet. Great oaks had fallen, and the copse between Changed the smooth lawn. Each knoll and ivied seat Was crumbling fast. The forest life had drowned In waves of lush young growth our pleasure-ground, Whelmed every nymph’s retreat. I thought: “The gods have wrought a cruel jest, Blasting our wood and those who dwell therein, Bidding the coverts break their wonted rest To grow and grow and drown the dancing-green; And so in dark, numb days, the winter through, The charm was wrought, and still the ruin grew, Unheard-of and unseen. “And they, my comrades, waking even as I, Have they, too, seen the change and crept away To weep, untroubled by the laughing sky, Far in the utmost shadow? Stay, oh, stay! O brothers mine, here’s one who weeps with you The sunny glade, the dancing in the dew, The pipes of yesterday!” So went I calling, calling down the glade: “Oh, harken, brothers, harken, one and all!” Mad Echo jeered me from the hemlock shade, But never came there answer to my call. Their caves lay overgrown and tenantless, Nor by a sound nor footprint might I guess What sorrow should befall. There came a laughter veering down the breeze, Soft, cruel sounds as from a dryad’s throat. “Even now they mock you, hid among the trees, Shaping their signals to the wood bird’s note, With sly, malicious dance and mirth-brimmed eyes.” The laughter broke, and, wavering into sighs, Failed, wind-like and remote. Panting, I swung from stem to jutting stem Up the wet crag, and, ever as I clomb, I called, ’twixt tears and pain, and offered them Bribe of my last year’s harvest, honeycomb, Beechnuts, and hazel; yet there came no sign Save Echo’s, answering that call of mine, “O friends, come home! Come home!” Oh, not among the cliffs or on the height! “Some glad adventure leads them far astray, Surely,” I said; “the coming of the night Will bring them back.” And for a while I lay And racked my wits with plans of punishment. Then up I sprang in doubt and discontent, And sought another way. And now that dark has fallen, and I lie Curled on the leaves and nurse my bleeding sides, I wonder, was it Pan who wandered by, And lured them down the unfamiliar rides-- That Pan whose piping has a sweeter note Than spring has bred in any woodland throat To win the shy-winged brides?