Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/87

 Nay, Low down in the hot soft hollow Too snakelike hisses thy spleen: 'O sea-stray, seed of Apollo!' What ill hast thou heard or seen? Say.

Man Knows well, if he hears beside him The snarl of thy wrath at noon, What evil may soon betide him, Or late, if thou smite not soon, Pan.

Me The sound of thy flute, that flatters The woods as they smile and sigh, Charmed fast as it charms thy satyrs, Can charm no faster than I Thee.