Poems
I am tired, I am tired, oh, Pan! the gods have sown
New growths of men and days—new harvestings,
And the new fields are scattered with strange seed,
And there are sterile songs and wasted breath,
And Beauty is a thing divorced from Life.
(She sinks on the moss.)
Hast thou forgotten, Pan, the days that were—
The quickening of woods, the tumult and fresh joy
Of budding fields, the wild expectant hands
Of living new-born things which yearned to thee,
The melodies frail reeds gave forth—desire
Of Love, mad ecstasy of song—faun-feet
Which danced tumultuous over bounding moss?
Hast thou forgotten? Art thou sleeping, Pan?
New growths of men and days—new harvestings,
And the new fields are scattered with strange seed,
And there are sterile songs and wasted breath,
And Beauty is a thing divorced from Life.
(She sinks on the moss.)
Hast thou forgotten, Pan, the days that were—
The quickening of woods, the tumult and fresh joy
Of budding fields, the wild expectant hands
Of living new-born things which yearned to thee,
The melodies frail reeds gave forth—desire
Of Love, mad ecstasy of song—faun-feet
Which danced tumultuous over bounding moss?
Hast thou forgotten? Art thou sleeping, Pan?
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