XXXV

When the great pink mallow Blossoms in the marshland, Full of lazy summer And soft hours,

Then I hear the summons 5 Not a mortal lover Ever yet resisted, Strange and far.

In the faint blue foothills, Making magic music, 10 Pan is at his love-work On the reeds.

I can guess the heart-stop, Fall and lull and sequence, Full of grief for Syrinx 15 Long ago.

Then the crowding madness, Wild and keen and tender, Trembles with the burden Of great joy. 20

Nay, but well I follow, All unskilled, that fluting. Never yet was reed-nymph Like to thee.