Rosamund Marriott Watson (1860–1911)

BENEATH these sun-warm’d pines among the heather,

A white goat, bleating, strains his hempen tether,

A purple stain dreams on the broad blue plain,

The waters and the west wind sing together.

The soft grey lichen creeps o’er ridge and hollow,

Where swift and sudden skims the slim sea swallow;

The hid cicalas play their viols all the day,

Merry of heart, although they may not follow.

Beyond yon slope, out-wearied with his reaping,

With vine-bound brows, young Daphnis lies a-sleeping;

Stolen from the sea on feet of ivory,

The white nymphs whisper, through the pine stems peeping.

We hear their steps, yet turn to seek them never,

Nor scale the sunny slope in fond endeavour;

It may not be, too swiftly would they flee

Our world-stain’d gaze and come no more for ever.

Pan, Pan is piping in the noontide golden,

Let us lie still, as in a dream enfolden,

Hear by the sea the airs of Arcady,

And feel the wind of tresses unbeholden.