Pan Is Not Dead

PAN is not dead. When Phœbus takes his way
Towards Capricorn, by darkening vale and hill,
And by the streams he loves, his flute is still;
Lone are the glades where nymphs danced yesterday;
And but to grace child’s tale or lover’s lay
Is Aready. Yet even as you fill
The air with lamentation, breaks the rill
Its icy fetters; lambs begin to play;
And beautiful things, piercing the tender green,
Arise from death and darkness. Then among
The wakening woods ethereal shapes are seen;
Faint footfalls heard, earth’s ruder sounds between;
And once again Pan’s pipe hath found a tongue,
Joyous and sweet as when the world was young.