The hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan.




DISTANCE


To the distance! Ah, the distance!
Blue and broad and dim!
Peace is not in burgh or meadow,
But beyond the rim.

Aye, beyond it, far beyond it;
Follow still my soul,
Till this earth is lost in heaven,
And thou feel'st the whole.




THE BIRD AND THE HOUR


The sun looks over a little hill
And floods the valley with gold--
A torrent of gold;
And the hither field is green and still;
Beyond it a cloud outrolled,
Is glowing molten and bright;