A Pupil of Pan

My love’s adorable and wise
As heaven and the winds of spring:
Go thou and gaze into her eyes--
Such scholars of the starry skies!
--Canst marvel at the thing?

My love is like a bud that blows
With fragrant honey in its heart:
Go, watch her smile--Wouldst not suppose
She from some warm, white, serious rose
Had learned the happy art?

The thoughts she speaks are pearls unstrung
That strew her fancy’s golden floor:
Go listen--For, the woods among,
She met with Pan, when very young,
Who taught her all his lore.