PAN—did you say he was dead, that he'd gone, and for good— Gone with the Dryads and all of the shy forest faces? Who was it then plucked your sleeve as you came through the wood, What of the whisper that waits in the oddest of places? Pan of the garden, the fold, Pan of the bird and the beast, Kindly, he lives as of old, He isn't dead in the least! Yes, you may find him to-day (how the reeds twitter on, Tuneful, as once when he followed young Bacchus's leopards); Stiffer he may be, perhaps, since our moonlight has shone Centuries long on his goat-horns—old Pan of the shepherds! Brown are his tatters, his tan Roughened from tillage and toil, Pagan and homely, but Pan— Pan of the sap and the soil! Find him, in fact, in the Park when the first crocus cowers; Cockney is he when it suits him, I know that he knocks his Crook at my window at times o'er sixpenn' orth of flowers, Gives me his blessing anew with my fresh window-boxes! Piping the leaf on the larch, Piping the nymphs (in the Row), Piping a magic of March, Just as he did long ago! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PASA THALASSA THALASSA by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON TO A YOUNG LADY; WHO ... REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN COUNTRY by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH IN AN ATELIER by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH MY LOYAL LOVE by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS A CHARACTER OF JOHN MORT by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD TO JOY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN PARSON ALLEN'S RIDE [AUGUST 15, 1777] by WALLACE BRUCE THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: ADIEU, MIGNONNE, MA BELLE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |