This Pan is but an idle god, I guess, <br />Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams <br />He loiters listlessly by woody streams, <br />Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness; <br />Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress <br />Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams <br />Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems <br />Drugged with a joy unutterable-- unless <br />His low pipes whistle hints of it far out <br />Across the ripples to the dragon-fly <br />That like a wind-born blossom blown about, <br />Drops quiveringly down, as though to die-- <br />Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt <br />Whether to fan his wings or fly without.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pan-4/
