“The Priest of Pan"

If the melancholy music of the spheres
Ever be perplexing to his mortal ears,
He flies unto the mountain
And sitting by some fountain
That in a beam of coolness from a mossy rock
Plunges in a pool all bubbling with its shock,
There he hears in the sound of the water falling
The sweet-tongued oriads to each other calling
Secrets that for years
Have escaped his ears.

The Priest of Pan, The Selected Poems of W.B. Yeats, by Yeats.

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