A Summer Pastoral

I know a little glade wherein to dwell,
When poppy-garlands crown the drowsing year,
Were honeyed happiness, —for I might hear
The hermit-thrush at twilight from his cell
Salute the love-star, and might feel the spell
That Hylas yielded to, for subtile-clear
The pool there limns the deep eyes of the deer,
And winds bear draughts of dreamy hydromel.

And closer might I win to Arcady,
For reeds there are to pluck and notch and tune,
As in the simpler, happier days of man;
And if I blew, and Echo answered me,
Sooth, I might fancy, underneath the moon,
Slim maidens dancing to the pipes of Pan!