Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PAN, by APOLLON NIKOLAYEVICH MAIKOV


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PAN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: He sleeps, he slumbers
Last Line: The great god pan!
Alternate Author Name(s): Maykov, Apollon Nikolaycich
Subject(s): Mythology - Classical; Pan (mythology)


HE sleeps, he slumbers --
The great Pan sleeps!
The glare of noon
Engrossing him cumbers
The great god's brain.
There breathe from heaps
Of ripely sunn'd grasses
Spells which solicit
Again and again,
Till drowsiness passes
Withstanding. He slumbers:
Profuse dreams visit
His deep-tranced swoon.

The roe-deer, panting,
Lies couched in the brake:
Her eye scarce peeps.
Of flock and of herd
The least sounds fail.
On the sward lies the snake,
Not stirring a scale.
In the wood, no bird
But ceases descanting:
The tree-top numbers
Are mute -- no word!
He sleeps, he slumbers --
The great Pan sleeps!

With sultry hum
Of beetles and bees,
Near to him dangles
A come-go-and-come
Of orbits and spangles;
A shimmering swarm.
And aloft o'er these
A fugue of sunn'd pigeons,
Cross-cruising, white-bladed,
They glide, they glance,
Ravelling, unravelling,
In rapid manoeuvre....
Below, Pan sleeps.
Still higher, brigaded
In sharp wedge-form,
What host has invaded --
What white host sweeps
Yon aeriest regions?
The cranes advance!
The cranes, far-travelling,
Advance and pass over!

In the supreme temple
Whose blue veil man
Sees not nor sunders
The watchers assemble
To guard his sleep.
Half heard they keep
Watch over the deep
Slumber of Pan:
And he dreams wonders....
To his dreams it seems
He scans unhind'red
Where Olympus discloses
His heaven-born kindred.
The gods' mount glisters,
And down sky-steeps
Goddesses his sisters
Scatter like roses
Sweet dreams past number --
Handfuls of dreams
For the great god's slumber,
The sleep Pan sleeps.

Tread tiptoe, Child,
And break not his rest!
Nay, stir not, but rather
Sit here in a nest
Where tall weeds darken
And deep grass wreathes;
Sit quiet and hearken --
His sleep, how mild!
How softly he breathes!

And so from aloft,
From the most high heaven,
So meek, so soft,
The dreams shall gather,
And o'er us creep, --
The sorrow-benumbers,
The healers of man,
The dreams that leaven
The great Pan's sleep.

He sleeps, he slumbers,
The great god Pan!





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