LISTEN, my sweet, the great god Pan is calling. I hear his shrill notes trembling on the breeze, Hark to the piercing echo, -- waning, falling! See how his hair gleams yonder 'mid the trees. Nor pain to-day, nor worry for the morrow, Let them not live before a strain so sweet! And joys we lack, love, let us haste to borrow From him who pipes there on his grassy seat. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COUNTRYWOMEN by KATHERINE MANSFIELD AUTUMN DIALOGUE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER TO LIVE MERRILY AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES by ROBERT HERRICK THE CROPPY BOY: (A BALLAD OF '98) by WILLIAM B. MCBURNEY TROY TOWN by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI MY MOTHER by WILLIAM BELL SCOTT |