An Ancient Error

He that has and a little tiny wit, —
With a heigh, ho, the wind and the rain.
THE “ sobbing wind,” the “ weeping rain,” —
’T is time to give the lie
To these old superstitions twain,
That poets sing and sigh.
Taste the sweet drops, — no tang of brine;
Feel them; they do not burn :
The daisy-buds, whereon they shine,
Laugh, and to blossoms turn.
There is no natural grief or sin;
'T is we have flung the pall,
And brought the sound of sorrow in.
Pan is not dead at all.
The merry Pan! his blithesome look
Twinkles through sun and rain;
By ivied rock and rippled brook
He pipes his jocund strain.
If winds have wailed and skies wept tears,
To poet’s vision dim,
'T was that his own sobs filled his ears,
His weeping blinded him.
'T is laughing breeze and singing shower,
As ever heart could need ;
And who with “ heigh ” and “ ho ” must lower
Hath “ tiny wit ” indeed.
Andrew Hedbrooke.