All little folk have rumours of their gods,
Sometimes bright rumours, sometimes thunder-fear
From random shadows on their hill of sods;
Disturbing, over-mastering and near.
Their quivering antennae, unheard song,
Anticipate the paths wherein they pass,
Inquisitive to probe the way along
That is mysterious with meadow-grass.

And there are gods above them, so to say,
Who see but rule them not, who, like themselves,
Reach out with song-antennae on their way
Through other zodiacs and other twelves...
Blown across earth, how many flutes of Pan,
How many beating wings, have haunted man!