IT’S forty in the shade to-day the spouting eaves declare; | |
| The boulders nose above the drift, the southern slopes are bare; | |
| Hub-deep in slush Apollo’s car swings north along the Zod- | |
| iac. Good lack, the Spring is back, and Pan is on the road! | |
| |
| His house is Gee & Tellus’ Sons,—so goes his jest with men— | 5 |
| He sold us Zeus knows what last year; he’ll take us in again. | |
| Disguised behind a livery-team, fur-coated, rubber-shod— | |
| Yet Apis from the bull-pen lows—he knows his brother God! | |
| |
| Now down the lines of tasselled pines the yearning whispers wake— | |
| Pitys of old thy love behold. Come in for Hermes’ sake! | 10 |
| How long since that so-Boston boot with reeling Mænads ran? | |
| Numen adest! Let be the rest. Pipe and we pay, O Pan. | |
| |
| (What though his phlox and hollyhocks ere half a month demised? | |
| What though his ampelopsis clambered not as advertised? | |
| Though every seed was guaranteed and every standard true— | 15 |
| Forget, forgive they did not live! Believe, and buy anew!) | |
| |
| Now o’er a careless knee he flings the painted page abroad— | |
| Such bloom hath never eye beheld this side the Eden Sword; | |
| Such fruit Pomona marks her own, yea, Liber oversees | |
| That we may reach (one dollar each) the Lost Hesperides! | 20 |
| |
| Serene, assenting, unabashed, he writes our orders down:— | |
| Blue Asphodel on all our paths—a few true bays for crown— | |
| Uncankered bud, immortal flower, and leaves that never fall— | |
| Apples of Gold, of Youth, of Health—and—thank you, Pan, that’s all. | |
| |
| He’s off along the drifted pent to catch the Windsor train, | 25 |
| And swindle every citizen from Keene to Lake Champlain; | |
| But where his goat’s-hoof cut the crust—beloved, look below— | |
| He’s left us (I’ll forgive him all) the may-flower ’neath her snow! | |
| |
