html website builder

In that fair land where dead and unborn meet,
Beyond the shadowy bars of time and space,
With asphodel and poppies at his feet
Pan lay asleep in a forgotten place.


The great god Pan lay sleeping with the dead,
His pipes, their music muted, by his side,
Dreaming long dreams of old-time Beauty fled--
Glad dreams of wind and sunlight, earth and tide;


Of Oreads wild in mountain solitudes,
And Naiads laughing 'neath the river's flow,
And little fauns at play in sun-flecked woods
Where shimmering shapes of Dryads gleam and go.


And as he dreamed an unborn spirit crept
On glimmering feet and, stooping o'er him, gazed
All wonder and all worship. Still he slept,
But sleeping stirred, and sighed and softly raised


His silent pipes, as if to play in dream
Those rushing melodies a young world knew--
Voices of tree and mountain, valley and stream,
Compact of earth and breeze, of fire and dew.


Pan raised his pipes. Through age-long slumbers deep
The touch of worship pierced him like a thrill.
Yet ere the music to his lips could leap
The reeds slipped from his sleep-bound fingers, still.


Almost they sank once more amid the great
Dark-hearted poppies and the asphodel,
But, foreordained by some mysterious fate,
The unborn watcher caught them ere they fell.

* * * * *

From that far land where dead and unborn meet
And face to face talk of Eternity,
A pristine soul on eager wings and fleet
Flew to the star that held his destiny.


And deep within him, like a singing fire
Strong to renew the weary life of man,
Sweet to allure and splendid to inspire,
Slept the forgotten, magic pipes of Pan.


Anon he touched them, waking music rare.
Once more upon the everlasting hills
The Oreads fled the winds with streaming hair,
The Naiads sported in the sparkling rills,


White-footed Dryads through the forests crept,
And little fauns hid lurking 'mid the flowers.
Wonder and Beauty to the mesure leapt,
Joy flashed along the re-created hours,


And Youth eternal all the world possessed.
Swift through the universe the message ran,
Stirring sweet echoes in each listening breast:
"The old gods live! Hark, hark! the pipes of Pan!"