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.