THIS Pan is but an idle god, I guess, Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams He loiters listlessly by woody streams, Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness; Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems Drugged with a joy unutterable -- unless His low pipes whistle hints of it far out Across the ripples to the dragon-fly That, like a wind-born blossom blown about, Drops quiveringly down, as though to die -- Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt Whether to fan his wings or fly without. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POETS ARE BORN NOT MADE by ROBERT FROST THE NIGHT MAIL NORTH (EUSTON SQUARE, 1840) by HENRY CHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL ETUDE REALISTE by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE KING'S HAND by MUHAMMAD AL-MU'TAMID II CAPTAIN MORROW'S THANKSGIVING by LILLIE E. BARR |