MOST good it is that Pan is dead: We be a sad and sullen folk Who bend beneath a strange god's yoke And grind our hearts for daily bread. To him what sadness has been spared, Who died before the world was old Nor saw his forests bought and sold, His shy, fleet wood-mates slain and snared. Who died remembering the dim Cool twilights when his clear pipes drew The sweetest songster of the crew To shrill an answer back to him. Who, dead, remembers only this; The darkling river's moonlit space Wherefrom the white-limbed naiad's face Lifted its wet red lips to his. What man would wish him life -- to see His happy river made a slave; His sleek, wild creatures, fierce and brave, Heart-broken in captivity? To know his nymphs and satyrs fled; To see a stern God's altar made Where once the crew of Bacchus played; To know his forest mute with dread. O, well that Pan is dead -- that he Hath missed all knowledge of the gray Shadow of this bleak afterday, And little mirth of gods that be! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLUEBELL by EMILY JANE BRONTE GERONTION by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 8. MUHAIMIN by EDWIN ARNOLD TO NIMUE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ROSETTE by HEINRICH CHRISTIAN BOIE |