Читать книгу The Rosary of Pan - Alexander Maitland Stephen - Страница 8

Table of Contents

DOWN by the sea-beach, where the breeze

Makes melodies mid lichened trees,

Of woodland haunts of flowers and bees,

Murmuring its low love litanies,

I sit at eve and think what gain,

What larger Life—surcease of pain,

Earth’s souls in sorrow could attain

Were pain and pleasure one—not twain.

Round rocky point and lone gray isle,

The lengthening shadows creep the while

Pan’s myriad moods in turn beguile

My sated senses with their smile.

’Tis all a dream. And yet, O heart,

Of this vast Whole thou art the Part!

“I am!” though sea and sky depart.

Sunlit, the soul replies, “Thou Art!”