  Let us go out to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing; Let us go out where the ancient hills mother the rivers that run to the sea; Let us go out where the wind wanders, tuning amid the trees swaying, Let us go out to the wider world where the thoughts of men are free. There on the hills the eye may see the changeless Beauty changing On sun-splashed grass and wavering corn, verdant valley and rolling down, Clouds steal up from a far-off tryst, like Titans into battalions ranging, And the splendid Sun-god marching on to crown the world with a golden crown. Here in the City the voices are hoarse. Here is calling and crying, Lust and longing for pride of place, vanity, pomp, and the strain of strife; Here in the City sobs arise from the battered hosts of the falling and dying, Who know not Peace, nor the End of Peace; who know not Life, nor the End of Life. Let us away from the webbed town-tangle, where monstrous Mammon is reigning Over the small cheap souls of slaves, sudden to cringe and swift to serve; Let us go out from the clanging Gates, the squalour of strife and the sordid straining, Let us go out by the open road with feet that falter not nor swerve. Come! and away to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing! Hark to the Voice of a splendid Peace calling from hill and river and sea! Come! and away to the old Earth Mother, giver of gifts without the praying, There, in the hills Her throne is set, and the thoughts of men are free. |
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