| |
| PAN came out of the woods one day,— | |
| His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray, | |
| The gray of the moss of walls were they,— | |
| And stood in the sun and looked his fill | |
| At wooded valley and wooded hill. | 5 |
| |
| He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand, | |
| On a height of naked pasture land; | |
| In all the country he did command | |
| He saw no smoke and he saw no roof. | |
| That was well! and he stamped a hoof. | 10 |
| |
| His heart knew peace, for none came here | |
| To this lean feeding save once a year | |
| Someone to salt the half-wild steer, | |
| Or homespun children with clicking pails | |
| Who see no little they tell no tales. | 15 |
| |
| He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach | |
| A new-world song, far out of reach, | |
| For a sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech | |
| And the whimper of hawks beside the sun | |
| Were music enough for him, for one. | 20 |
| |
| Times were changed from what they were: | |
| Such pipes kept less of power to stir | |
| The fruited bough of the juniper | |
| And the fragile bluets clustered there | |
| Than the merest aimless breath of air. | 25 |
| |
| They were pipes of pagan mirth, | |
| And the world had found new terms of worth. | |
| He laid him down on the sun-burned earth | |
| And ravelled a flower and looked away— | |
| Play? Play?—What should he play? | 30 |
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