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Eugene Field - Pan liveth
Work rating: Low

They told me once that Pan was dead,
  And so, in sooth, I thought him;
For vainly where the streamlets led
  Through flowery meads I sought him—
Nor in his dewy pasture bed
  Nor in the grove I caught him.
  "Tell me," `twas so my clamor ran—
  "Tell me, oh, where is Pan?"

But, once, as on my pipe I played
  A requiem sad and tender,
Lo, thither came a shepherd-maid—
  Full comely she and slender!
I were indeed a churlish blade
  With wailings to offend `er—
    For, surely, wooing`s sweeter than
    A mourning over Pan!

So, presently, whiles I did scan
  That shepherd-maiden pretty,
And heard her accents, I began
  To pipe a cheerful ditty;
And so, betimes, forgot old Pan
  Whose death had waked my pity;
     So—so did Love undo the man
     Who sought and pined for Pan!

He was not dead! I found him there—
  The Pan that I was after!
Caught in that maiden`s tangling hair,
  Drunk with her song and laughter!
I doubt if there be otherwhere
  A merrier god or dafter—
    Nay, nor a mortal kindlier than
    Is this same dear old Pan!

Beside me, as my pipe I play,
  My shepherdess is lying,
While here and there her lambkins stray
  As sunny hours go flying;
They look like me—those lambs—they say,
  And that I`m not denying!
    And for that sturdy, romping clan,
    All glory be to Pan!

Pan is not dead, O sweetheart mine!
  It is to hear his voices
In every note and every line
  Wherein the heart rejoices!
He liveth in that sacred shrine
  That Love`s first, holiest choice is!
    So pipe, my pipe, while still you can,
    Sweet songs in praise of Pan!
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