The Song of Pan
Mad with love and laden
With immortal pain,
Pan pursued a maiden—
Pan, the god—in vain.
For when Pan had nearly
Touched her, wild to plead,
She was gone—and clearly
In her place a reed!
Long the god, unwitting,
Through the valley strayed;
Then at last, submitting,
Cut the reed, and made,
Deftly fashioned, seven
Pipes, and poured his pain
Unto earth and heaven
In a piercing strain.
So with god and poet;
Beauty lures them on,
Flies, and ere they know it
Like a wraith is gone.
Then they seek to borrow
Pleasure still from wrong,
And with smiling sorrow
Turn it to a song.
