LISTEN, my sweet, the great god Pan is calling. I hear his shrill notes trembling on the breeze, Hark to the piercing echo, -- waning, falling! See how his hair gleams yonder 'mid the trees. Nor pain to-day, nor worry for the morrow, Let them not live before a strain so sweet! And joys we lack, love, let us haste to borrow From him who pipes there on his grassy seat. |