Pan

This Pan is but an idle god, I guess,

Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams

He loiters listlessly by woody streams,

Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness;

Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress

Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams

Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems

Drugged with a joy unutterable — unless

His low pipes whistle hints of it far out

Across the ripples to the dragon-fly

That like a wind-born blossom blown about,

Drops quiveringly down, as though to die —

Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt

Whether to fan his wings or fly without.