Poems
Lest the world die—lest the world die, oh, Pan!
Pan
One calls me from the unforgotten years.
The Maiden
Oh, Pan! the years are very sorrowful—
There is no splendour now amongst the gods.
There is no beauty of words, nor any more
Does song pour forth from ripe Olympian lips—
And like a dream forgotten are the gods;
And like a ruined dream their temples are,
And sadder than the eyes of Hecate
The Gorgon eyes of sorrow freeze the world,
Crushing the soul of man and all good days.
There is no splendour now amongst the gods.
There is no beauty of words, nor any more
Does song pour forth from ripe Olympian lips—
And like a dream forgotten are the gods;
And like a ruined dream their temples are,
And sadder than the eyes of Hecate
The Gorgon eyes of sorrow freeze the world,
Crushing the soul of man and all good days.
Pan
I come. I come—one calls me—I must hear—
4
