And often when he wandered through Old forests at the fall of dew-- A new Endymion who sought A beauty higher than all thought-- Some night, men said, most surely he Would favored be of deity: That in the holy solitude Her sudden presence, long pursued, Unto his gaze would be confessed; The awful moonlight of her breast Come, high with majesty, and hold His heart's blood till his heart were cold, Unpulsed, unsinewed, and undone, And snatch his soul to Avalon. PAN I Haunter of green intricácies Where the sunlight's amber laces Deeps of darkest violet; Where the shaggy Satyr chases Nymphs and Dryads, fair as Graces, Whose white limbs with dew are wet: Piper in hid mountain places, Where the blue-eyed Oread braces Winds which in her sweet cheeks set Of Aurora rosy traces; While the Faun from myrtle mazes Watches with an eye of jet: What art thou and these dim races, Thou, O Pan, of many faces, Who art ruler yet? II Tell me, piper, have I ever Heard thy hollow syrinx quiver Trickling music in the trees? Where the hazel copses shiver, Have I heard its dronings sever The warm silence, or the bees? Ripple murmurings that never Could be born of fall or river, Or the whispering breeze. III Once in tempest it was given Me to see thee,--where the leven Lit the craggy wood with glare,-- Dancing, while,--like wedges driven,-- Thunder split the deeps of heaven, And the wild rain swept thy hair.-- What art thou, whose presence, even While with fear my heart was riven, Healed it as with prayer? A STORMY SUNSET I Soul of my body! what a death For such a day of grief and gloom, Unbroken sorrow of the sky!-- 'Tis as if God's own loving breath Had swept the piled-up thunder by, And, bursting through the tempest's sheath, Cleft from its pod a giant bloom. II See how the glory grows! unrolled, Expanding length on radiant length Of cloud-wrought petals.--Vast, a rose The western heavens of flame unfold, Where, sparkling thro' the splendor, glows The evening star, fresh-faced with strength-- A raindrop in its heart of gold. A WOODLAND GRAVE White moons may come, white moons may go, She sleeps where early blossoms blow; Knows nothing of the leafy June, That leans above her, night and noon, Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon, Watching her roses grow. The downy moth at evening comes And flutters round their honeyed blooms: Long, languid clouds, like ivory, That isle the blue lagoons of sky, Grow red as molten gold and dye With flame the pine-dark glooms.