Iimoss and Fern

Where rise the brakes of bramble there,
Wrapped with the trailing rose;
Through cane where waters ramble, there

Where deep the sword-grass grows,
Who knows?
Perhaps, unseen of eyes of man,
Hides Pan.

Perhaps the creek, whose pebbles make
A foothold for the mint,
May bear, — where soft its trebles make
Confession, — some vague hint,
(The print,
Goat-hoofed, of one who lightly ran,)
Of Pan.

Where, in the hollow of the hills
Ferns deepen to the knees,
What sounds are those above the hills,
And now among the trees? —
No breeze! —
The syrinx, haply, none may scan,
Of Pan.

In woods where waters break upon
The hush like some soft word;
Where sun-shot shadows shake upon
The moss, who has not heard —
No bird! —
The flute, as breezy as a fan,
Of Pan?

Far in, where mosses lay for us
Still carpets, cool and plush;
Where bloom and branch and ray for us.
Sleep, waking with a rush —
The hush
But sounds the satyr hoof a span
Of Pan.

O woods, — whose thrushes sing to us,
Whose brooks dance sparkling heels;
Whose wild aromas cling to us, —
While here our wonder kneels,
Who steals
Upon us, brown as bark with tan,
But Pan?