O Pan, who shepherds shepherds with their flocks,
With fleece like snow, all thick with curling locks,
Who teaches them to pipe out in the fields,
Where Earth green grass for sheep so richly yields.
At noonday, when the flocks into the wood
Are led, respite the rustic god finds good;
Impromptu dance and song with nymphs he makes,
Until with panicked frenzy each limb shakes.
In mountain wilds, unpeopled is he found;
All men of reason does the god astound:
Such joy he finds in rustic ways of life,
Where song and dance and flocks and herds are rife;
Where comely speech is never heard nor known,
There dwells the god, and there he dwells alone:
In city streets one never meets him, but
In woods and pastures does he sprightly glut
Himself on all life’s simple pleasures, for
All wild amusements there he keeps in store.

2 thoughts on “Pan

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