Still be thy stridency, Player Pandean!
Soothe me the lute; but oh hush to the paean!
Feed me on kisses of flowers Lethean!
Specks on the wheel are the nights and the days,
Fast as they fall from me, lost in the haze,
Sobered to softness of silvery grays.
Satan is fallen from the pale empyrean
Down in the dusk with the dead Galilean: —-
Fill me the Cup of the poppy Circean!
Satyrs and Fauns, I call.
Bring your beauty to man!
I am the mate for ye all’
I am the passionate Pan.
Come, O come to the dance
Leaping with wonderful whips,
Life on the stroke of a glance,
Death in the stroke of the lips!
I am hidden beyond,
Shed in a secret sinew
Smitten through by the fond
Folly of wisdom in you!
Come, while the moon (the moon!)
Sheds her ambrosial splendour,
Reels in the redeless rune
Ineffably, utterly, tender!
Hark! the appealing cry
Of deadly hurt in the hollow: —-
Hyacinth! Hyacinth! Ay!
Smitten to death by Apollo.
Swift, O maiden moon,
Send thy ray-dews after;
Turn the dolorous tune
To soft ambiguous laughter!