We, sighing, said, “Our Pan is dead;
His pipe hangs mute beside the river;
Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,
But Music’s airy voice is fled.
Spring mourns as for untimely frost;
The bluebird chants a requiem;
The willow-blossom waits for him;
The Genius of the wood is lost.”
Then from the flute, untouched by hands,...
PUFFED up with luring to her knees
The rabbits from the blackberries,
Quaint little satyrs, and shy and mute,
That limped reluctant to the flute,
She needs must seek the forest’s womb
And pipe up tigers from green gloom.
Grouped round the dreaming oaten quill
Those sumptuous savages were still,
Rich spectral beasts...
* * *
There was an Old Man with a flute,
A sarpint ran into his boot;
...
