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Silent stand the forest and the wooded height,
Silent are the streamlets dripping down the rock,
Hushed are the busy murmur of the noonday bright,
Hushed the mingled bleating of the wandering flock.
Pan himself makes music on the pipe he loves,
See his soft lips gliding o'er the close-ranked reeds!
Nymphs that range the mountains,
Nymphs that haunt the groves,
Weave the dance around him in the grassy meads.

- Plato