Here dim dream-vistas thronged with phantom shapes
Show distant garden-gates of Proserpine,
And satyrs, stained with juice of purple grapes,
That burst, sun-ripened, on the purple vine;
Here forests where red Autumn weaves and drapes
A pagan pageantry of shade and shine,
And crimson paths where some fleet nymph escapes
A troop of stumbling suitors dull with wine, --
Who follow with shrill halloos her flying feet,
Dew-bright in bright-stemmed meadows, and on lawns
Made mellow by the myriad-murmur of bees
To where, in his cool-shadowed river-seat,
Pan from his lute draws drowsy melodies
For feast of dryads, and for chase of fauns.