Do you hear him calling, the great god Pan,
Calling to waken the buds from their sleeping,
Down near the bank where the crocus is keeping
Tryst with the snow?
Do you hear him laughing, the great god Pan,
Laughing to rival the brook in its purling,
And lilting of songs that it learned from the skirling
Of fairy pipes low?
Come, let us seek him, the great God Pan.
The prints of his hoofs are bidding us follow
Out to the ledges and deep-sheltered hollow
Where violets blow.