THIS is the day the great god Pan lies dead, While all his furry fauns and satyrs go Godless and whining through the falling snow Out of a dreary Christian heaven shed. No bright-limbed dancers in free, careless measure Follow young Bacchus of the green-wreathed head; An elder god, and sorry-eyed, has said That mirth is folly, melancholy pleasure. And yet, they say, in merry Galilee A weeping faun beheld a blithe young man Who, moved with pity, cut some rushy weeds, From which he whittled several tuneful reeds, And took the little faun upon his knee To soothe his sobbing with the pipes of Pan. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ACROSS THE RED SKY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD GENEVIEVE AND ALEXANDRA (2) by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE WIND AT THE DOOR by WILLIAM BARNES THE FAIRY THORN; AN ULSTER BALLAD by SAMUEL FERGUSON CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD [JUNE 23, 1780] by FRANCIS BRET HARTE |