One drowsy day of summer, Syrinx wandered in the cool depths of the forest. And there Pan found her, singing and garlanded with flowers.
—Brown-limbed and supple nymph, all the pine-crowned satyrs and the dryads babble thy name. Now even Pan himself desires—thou art very fair . . . I love thee.
But pale Syrinx only smiled in disdain for words too often heard.
The god's quick eyes darkened. He smiled. His ready hand leapt out . . . The frail virgin darted away like a shadow among the trees and over the fields. . . .
Her soft lips open to her striving breath, her eyes appealing, the nymph slips over the flowered bank of a clear stream . . . The waters ripple about her thighs.
—O naiads, help me quickly!
Pan reaches out . . . His arms enfold a thicket of sighing reeds.
Later, he culls the swaying reeds to cut them in uneven lengths and bind them side by side. Then, placing them to his lips, he sighs . . .
The clear notes glide out across the fields. Sometimes they are very sad and men who
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