  Hand clamped to desk, And eyes on task undone, I see a meadow pool, With shaken willows silvering. O, gods that trouble me, Wherefore, wherefore?— Pan is at the door. An arabesque Of sifted sun And forest star-grass, cool With shadows tunnelling: Witch-work that tauntingly Webs my bare floor: Ah, Pan is at the door. I'm civilized, And in my veins The mountain brook is still But oh, the heart hill-born, It paineth sore, For Pan is at the door. Ye sacrificed Of earth, what rains Have wept their will And drowned your rebel star, That ye should sit forlorn, Telling Greed's score, When Pan is at the door? |
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