That are ourselves, her daughters wild and fair
Caught nymphwise in the kisses of the air,
That flings our songs reverberate from steep to steep,
Songs caught in solar light, we are shed
Even down beyond the valleys of the dead,
And smiled upon in groves ruled by the holy head.
Great Pan hath heard us, children of his wooing,
Great Pan, that listens to the forest, suing
Vainly His peace that dwells even in the desolate halls.
The delicately-chiselled flowers nod,
Look to the skies, and see thee for a God,
O sightless lyre that wails, O viewless voice that calls!
Thy sound is in our depth and in her womb,
Far in Spring’s milky breast, in Autumn’s gloom,
In Summer's feast and song, in Winter’s funerals.
In the dead hollow of the hills there rings,
Sharp song, like frost hissing on silver wings,
Or like the swelling tune we listen to for Spring’s.
We come, we mountains, crowned and incense-bringing,
Robed as white priests, the solemn anthem singing;
Or as an organ thundering fiery tunes.
We come, we greener hills, and rend the sky
With happier chorus and the songs that die
Or mix their subtle joy and being with the moon's.
We come, we pine-clad steeps, we feathery slopes,
With footfalls softer than the antelope’s.
We listen and obey: the sacred slumberer swoons
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