In Greenwood Glen
In greenwood glen, where greedy bees
Drain fragrant flower-cups to the lees,
When summer’s shining lances smite
The grain-fields gleaming golden bright,
I hear Æolian melodies.
The music bounds along the breeze
In ever-changing symphonies,
And lulls my soul with calm delight
In Greenwood glen.
Elusively it faints and flees,
Retreats, returns,-but no one sees
The piper; for, as in affright,
He skilfully eludes the sight;
’Tis Pan who hides amid the trees,
In Greenwood glen.
Clinton Scollard.