PANDEAN PIPEDREAMS

This is something that I heard,

As the fluting of a bird,

On a certain drowsy day,

When my pipe was under way.

I was weary of the town,

And the going up and down;

Sick of streets and sick of noise,—

And I pined for Pagan joys.

Daphne, here it is July!

Just the month, my love, to fly

To a sylvan solitude

In the green and ancient wood.

We will trip it as we go

On the neo-Pagan toe,

Sunny days and starry nights,

Savoring the wild delights

Of a turbulent desire

That may set the wood on fire.

We will play at hunt-the-fawn,

In the neo-Dorian dawn.

You will scamper through the brake,

And I'll follow in your wake —

As the young Apollo ran

In the piping days of Pan.

You'll escape me, without doubt,

For I'm just a trifle stout;

But, when I have lagged behind,

Waiting for my second wynde,

From some pretty hiding-place

Will emerge your laughing face;

I shall glimpse your eyes of blue,

Hear your merry “Peek-a-boo!”

What to wear? The Pagan plan

Contemplates a coat of tan;

But I fear we shall require

Just a trifle more attire.

Bushes scratch and brambles sting;

Insect myriads are a-wing;—

Heavens, how mosquitoes swarm

When the woodland air is warm.

( MEM: To take, when we elope,

Tanglewood Mosquito Dope. )

Do you like the picture, dear?

Have you aught of doubt or fear?

Have you any criticism

Of my neo-Paganism?

If not, dearie, let us fly

To that passion-ripening sky,

Where our souls may have their fling,

And our every care take wing.

So the bird song fluted by,

Like a vagrant summer sigh —

Came, and passed, and was no more;

And my pleasant dream was o'er.

For arose the wraith of Doubt;

And I knew my pipe was out.