These are the green Pillows of Pan. This is the golden water He leaves his feet in when he gets up. This is his platter, this his cup. 'Round his table are shepherds led, To taste of his rare, ambrosial bread. They come from far when the Pan-pipes play, And throng his banqueting halls all day. These are the keen Pleasures of Pan; And I am his wilding daughter. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE BEING AS VISION by HAYDEN CARRUTH MOTHER NIGHT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON EASTER HYMN by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE LIGHTS OF NEW YORK by SARA TEASDALE EGOISME A DEUX' by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE |