POETRY.
Pan pipes soundlessly For the unheeding bees.
Bound by the trailing tresses of the vine To soft captivity, Neptune has left his waves To stand beneath the frozen, green cascades Of summer trees.
. .
Is the Sea-God, then, content to rule The rippling of wayward flowers, Lulled by the song that many birds pour out
From their green cradles, gently rocked—
Songs that foam like hissing rain Among the heavy blossoms ? - Can he control The music of the wind through poplar-trees, Those trees, an instrument .
That any wind, however young Or drunk with drowsing scent Of petals, crushed by the flaming fingers of the sun, Can play upon ? • But darkness, the deliverer, Comes with dreams.
Night's grape-stained waves Cool his aching body ; The song of the nightingale Falls round him Like the froth of little waves ; The warm touch of the evening wind Thaws the green cascades Till you can hear
Every liquid sound within the world— Fountains, falling waterfalls, The low murmur of the rolling sea— 1 . . And Neptune dreams that he is free. .. .
OSBERT SITWELL.
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