Poems
Pan
Cast all their glamour from thee—I am here.
The Maiden
This is the travail of death which brings forth Life,
Pan
Pan dies not, nor the memory of Pan—
The great gods sleep—they shall not always sleep—
Nor shall the world lose Beauty till it die.
The great gods sleep—they shall not always sleep—
Nor shall the world lose Beauty till it die.
The Maiden
Oh, Pan! thy words are fruitful memories
And madden me with thoughts of ardent days
And Greek nights, insatiate when the astonished woods
Woke 'neath the maddened overwhelming cry
And madden me with thoughts of ardent days
And Greek nights, insatiate when the astonished woods
Woke 'neath the maddened overwhelming cry
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