XXIX
Ah, what am I but a torrent,
Headstrong, impetuous, broken,
Like the spent clamour of waters
In the blue canyon?
Ah, what art thou but a fern-frond,
Wet with blown spray from the river,
Diffident, lovely, sequestered,
Frail on the rock-ledge?
Yet, are we not for one brief day,
While the sun sleeps on the mountain,
Wild-hearted lover and loved one,
Safe in Pan’s keeping?