  The old gods wait where secret beauty stirs, By green, untempled altars of the Spring, If haply, still, there be some worshippers Whose hearts are moved with long remembering. The cloven feet of Pan are on the hill, His reedy musics sadder than all rains, Since none will seek—pipe ever as he will— Those unanointed and neglected fanes. Beauty and joy—the bread and wine and all— We have foresworn; our noisy hearts forget; We stray and on strange altars cry and call ... Ah, patient gods, be patient with us yet, And Pan, pipe on, pipe on, till we shall rise, And follow, and be happy, and be wise. |
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