THEY told me Pan was dead, but I
⁠Oft marvelled who it was that sang
Down the green valleys languidly
⁠Where the grey elder-thickets hang.

Sometimes I thought it was a bird
⁠My soul had charged with sorcery;
Sometimes it seemed my own heart heard
⁠Inland the sorrow of the sea.

But even where the primrose sets
⁠The seal of her pale loveliness,
I found amid the violets
⁠Tears of an antique bitterness.