The Priest of Pan

If the melancholy music of the spheres

Ever be perplexing to his mortal ears,

He flies unto the mountain

And sitting by some fountain

That in a beam of coolness from a mossy rock

Plunges in a pool all bubbling with its shock,

There he hears in the sound of the water falling

The sweet-tongued oriads to each other calling

Secrets that for years

Have escaped his ears.