And blew into their velvet throats;
  And ever from that hour the frogs repeat
The murmur of Pan’s pipes, the notes,
  And answers strange and sweet;

And they that hear them are renewed
  By knowledge in some god-like touch conveyed,
Entering again into the eternal mood,
  Wherein the world was made.

THE MEADOW

Here when the cloudless April days begin,
    And the quaint crows flock thicker day by day,
Filling the forests with a pleasant din,
    And the soiled snow creeps secretly away,
Comes the small busy sparrow, primed with glee,
    First preacher in the naked wilderness,
    Piping an end to all the long distress
From every fence and every leafless tree.

Now with soft slight and viewless artifice
    Winter’s iron work is wondrously undone;
In all the little hollows cored with ice
    The clear brown pools stand simmering in the sun,
Frail lucid worlds, upon whose tremulous floors
    All day the wandering water-bugs at will,
    Shy mariners whose oars are never still,
Voyage and dream about the heightening shores.

The bluebird, peeping from the gnarled thorn,
    Prattles upon his frolic flute, or flings,
In bounding flight across the golden morn,
    An azure gleam from off his splendid wings. 
Here the slim-pinioned swallows sweep and pass
    Down to the far-off river; the black crow
    With wise and wary visage to and fro
Settles and stalks about the withered grass.

Here, when the murmurous May-day is half gone,
    The watchful lark before my feet takes flight,
And wheeling to some lonelier field far on,
    Drops with obstreperous cry; and here at night,
When the first star precedes the great red moon,
    The shore-lark tinkles from the darkening field,
    Somewhere, we know not, in the dusk concealed,
His little creakling and continuous tune.

Here, too, the robins, lusty as of old,
    Hunt the waste grass for forage, or prolong
From every quarter of these fields the bold,
    Blithe phrases of their never-finished song. 
The white-throat’s distant descant with slow stress
    Note after note upon the noonday falls,
    Filling the leisured air at intervals
With his own mood of piercing pensiveness.

How often from this windy upland perch,
    Mine eyes have seen the forest break in bloom,
The rose-red maple and the golden birch,
    The dusty yellow of the elms, the gloom
Of the tall poplar hung with tasseled black;
    Ah, I have watched, till eye and ear and brain
    Grew full of dreams as they, the moted plain,
The sun-steeped wood, the marsh-land at its back,

The valley where the river wheels and fills,
    Yon city glimmering in its smoky shroud,
And out at the last misty rim the hills
    Blue and far off and mounded like a cloud,
And here the noisy rutted road that goes
    Down the slope yonder, flanked on either side
    With the smooth-furrowed fields flung black and wide,
Patched with pale water sleeping in the rows.