Palilia

Still doth sweet Pales, through our April fieldWith ghostly shepherds glide, ere night be nigh;Still purple mystery their torches yield,Incense of olive, box and rosmary;Ay, down dim Aprils still Narcissus flies,With glimpse of yellow hair across the grass,And the immortal blue of longing eyes,Looks forth from every violet we pass:Whilst even I, 'mid jar of noises rude,May break Care's bond and speed a little spanThrough fields of thought, find Echo's solitude,And hear, far off, the thrilling pipe of Pan!