The Counsel of Pan

In this green meadow, traveller, yield
Thy weary limbs to rest:
The branches of the stone pine sway
To the wind from out the west;
The cricket calls, and all noon long
The shepherd's piping fills
The plane-grove's leafy shadows
By the spring among the hills.
Soothed by these sounds thou shalt avoid
The dogstar's autumn fires,
And then to-morrow cross the ridge;--
Such wisdom Pan inspires.