XXXV
When the great pink mallow
Blossoms in the marshland,
Full of lazy summer
And soft hours,
Then I hear the summons
Not a mortal lover
Ever yet resisted,
Strange and far.
In the faint blue foothills,
Making magic music,
Pan is at his love-work
On the reeds.
I can guess the heart-stop,
Fall and lull and sequence,
Full of grief for Syrinx
Long ago.
Then the crowding madness,
Wild and keen and tender,
Trembles with the burden
Of great joy.
Nay, but well I follow,
All unskilled, that fluting.
Never yet was reed-nymph
Like to thee.