That Pan whose piping has a sweeter note
Than spring has bred in any woodland throat
To win the shy-winged brides?
Or else another, mightier than Pan,
That Other who has neither form nor speech,
Who stops the spider ere he weaves his span,
Or lizard, darting o’er the fallen beech,
Who draws a film across the doe’s brown eyes,
And takes the lark, though high and high he flies
And dreams him out of reach.