THE SONG OF PAN

Mad with love and laden

With immortal pain,

Pan pursued a maiden —

Pan, the god — in vain.

For when Pan had nearly

Touched her, wild to plead,

She was gone — and clearly

In her place a reed!

Long the god, unwitting,

Through the valley strayed;

Then at last, submitting,

Cut the reed, and made,

Deftly fashioned, seven

Pipes, and poured his pain

Unto earth and heaven

In a piercing strain.

So with god and poet;

Beauty lures them on,

Flies, and ere they know it

Like a wraith is gone.

Then they seek to borrow

Pleasure still from wrong,

And with smiling sorrow

Turn it to a song.