Classic Poem

To moon-strung lyres of the mountain wind,
The warp and woof of Love's sweet minstrelsy
In introspective mood I dreamy wove.
Often to higher heights I climb to find,
Above the circumscribed ken of man
A realm removed where I might sing of Love
Nor risk the rough jeers of the lower herd.
High up my heart-flute carols like a bird —
The laurel-folded nightingale who dreams,
And sings into the moon's leaf-laced beams.
O, Pan! Strange elf-god of the untrod ways!
Vainly I seek through rain-veiled April days,
Through Spring's bright gossamer of sun-shot haze,
When flirting eerie down the valleys wild
Your magic piping comes, thin — high above
The woodland's murmurs. You alone can tell
The rapturous freedom of wild pagan love,
With bloodless, cold restrictions all removed;
Tell me, O, Elf-God! I have never loved!