The Wind Makes Moan, The Water Runneth Chill; I Hear The Nymphs Go Crying Through The Brake; And Roaming Mournfully From Hill To Hill The Maenads All Are Silent For His Sake! He Loved Thy Pipe, O Wreathed And Piping Pan! So Play'St Thou Sadly, Lone Within Thine Hollow; He Was Thy Blood, If Ever Mortal Man, Therefore Thou Weepest - Even Thou, Apollo! But O, The Grieving Of The Little Things, Above The Pipe And Lyre, Throughout The Woods! The Beating Of A Thousand Airy Wings, The Cry Of All The Fragile Multitudes! The Moth Flits Desolate, The Tree-Toad Calls, Telling The Sorrow Of The Elf And Fay; The Cricket, Little Harper Of The Walls, Puts Up His Harp - Hath Quite Forgot To Play! And Risen On These Winter Paths Anew, The Wilding Blossoms Make A Tender Sound; The Purple Weed, The Morning-Glory Blue, And All The Timid Darlings Of The Ground! Here, Here The Pain Is Sharpest! For He Walked As One Of These - And They Knew Naught Of Fear, But Told Him Daily Happenings And Talked Their Lovely Secrets In His List'Ning Ear! Yet We Do Bid Them Grieve, And Tell Their Grief; Else Were They Thankless, Else Were All Untrue; O Wind And Stream, O Bee And Bird And Leaf, Mourn For Your Poet, With A Long Adieu!