This page has been validated.
PAN
219
is gone, the whisper of little feet that cannot be seen, the piercing sweet music from very far away, that fills the heart with gladness and yet with a strange pain—the ache of the Weltschmerz—the echo of the pipes of Pan.
". . . . Oftenest in the dark woods I hear him sing
"Dim, half-remembered things, where the old mosses cling
"To the old trees, and the faint wandering eddies bring
"The phantom echoes of a phantom spring."—Fiona Macleod.
