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.