Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind;
  And the white dew on the new-bladed grass,
  Just piercing the dark earth, hung silently;
  And there was more which I remember not:
  But on the shadows of the morning clouds,
  Athwart the purple mountain slope, was written
  Follow, O, follow! as they vanished by;
  And on each herb, from which Heaven's dew had fallen,
  The like was stamped, as with a withering fire,
  A wind arose among the pines; it shook
  The clinging music from their boughs, and then
  Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the farewell of ghosts,
  Were heard: Oh, follow, follow, follow me!
  And then I said, "Panthea, look on me."
  But in the depth of those beloved eyes
  Still I saw, follow, follow!

Pan. The crags, this clear spring morning, mock our voices,
As they were spirit-tongued.

Asia. It is some being
Around the crags. What fine clear sounds! Oh, list!