THIS Pan is but an idle god, I guess, Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams He loiters listlessly by woody streams, Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness; Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems Drugged with a joy unutterable -- unless His low pipes whistle hints of it far out Across the ripples to the dragon-fly That, like a wind-born blossom blown about, Drops quiveringly down, as though to die -- Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt Whether to fan his wings or fly without. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE YOUNG LAUNDRYMAN by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS BLUEBEARD'S CLOSET by ROSE TERRY COOKE HAMATREYA by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE OLD SHIPS by JAMES ELROY FLECKER CUMNOR HALL by WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE THE FIRST PROCLAMATION OF MILES STANDISH [NOVEMBER 23, 1620] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON THE WOMAN AND THE ANGEL by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE |