Ye that have deemed of Pan as shepherds sing,
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With soft pipe fluting in some leafy dale,
Know of the earthquake too is he the king,
And where the violet-sloped volcanoes fling
Their lovely unloved streams into the vale.
Dear to his heart, no less than gentle rills
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Touching the whispering music from the reeds,
The rainbowed lava flooding through the hills,
Fairer by every faery thing it kills,
And decked with flowers no poet plucks or heeds.
Yea! of the winter, too, is he the lord,
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And for his pleasaunce and his mansion takes
The pinnacled ice of polar wastes abhorred,
Even as some brambled bower on a green sward;
Alike the windflower and the mountain shakes,
Hearing his tread; and, as some iron string,
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No less the pines vibrate than each soft dome
Chimes in a maiden's breast when he doth sing—
For from the lips of this rock-hearted king
Falls sweetness as of honey from the comb.