Pan Asleep

He half unearthed the Titans with his voice,
The stars are leaves before his windy riot;
The spheres a little shake; but see, of choice,
How closely he wraps up in hazel quiet.
And while he sleeps the bees are numbering
The fox-glove flowers from base to sealed tip
Till fond, they doze upon his slumbering.
And smear with honey his wide, smiling lip.
He may not be disturbed: it is the hour
That to his deepest solitude belongs;
The unfrighted reed opens to noontide flower.
And poets hear him sing their lyric songs,
While the Arcadian hunter, baffled, hot.
Scourges his statue in its ivy-grot.