Classic Poem

Far heard, and faintly, over wood and hill,
Twelve slow vibrations from the village chime
Ruffle the gracious calm. Oh, rare the skill
That gave so sweet a voice to iron Time!

The airs are gentle as the breath of sleep;
They are no more than winged souls of flowers,
Lured forth by night from hedgy coverts deep,
Where drowsily they shunned the glaring hours.

The moon is up. Now this were time to see
All delicate shy things that haunt the wood:
The mild-eyed fauns, the nymphs of stream and tree:
King Oberon and all his fairy brood.

Now from the folded curtain of each flower
Small visages should peer upon the moon,
To note if it be yet the charmed hour
To trace the ring and chant the magic rune.

What low, delicious sound was that far borne
From the obscure recesses of the glen?
Was it the fanfare of an elfin horn,
Or restless bird that trilled and slept again?

Is that the brook's bland gurgle in the sedge,
Or flag-wreathed naiads by the osiered stream,
Laving their white limbs from the oozy edge,
Or diving where the minnows dart and gleam?

There is a rustle in the thicket screen!
Is it a frightened hare that starts and flies,
Or stealthy-footed faun that peers between
The interwoven vines with shy surmise?

'Twere hardly a surprise if from the shades
Pan came, and, marshalling his merry crew,
Piped to their dancing in the moonlit glades,
Timing with horny hoof and wild halloo.

O for the fervor of a Doric prayer,
A Runic spell, or secret Druid rite,
To call the forest-haunters from their lair
And charm the elfin companies to sight!

For Pan sits in some beechen coppice near,
Throned on the turf amongst his bearded brood;
Piping in undertones we may not hear,
Or, hearing, deem them voices of the wood.

The fauns lurk in their ivied dens unseen,
The naiads cower near the reeded rill;
The viewless fairies dance upon the green,
The oreads slumber on the russet hill.