PAN O sea-stray, seed of Apollo, What word wouldst thou have with me? My ways thou wast fain to follow Or ever the years hailed thee Man. Now If August brood on the valleys, If satyrs laugh on the lawns, What part in the wildwood alleys Hast thou with the fleet-foot fauns— Thou? See! Thy feet are a man's—not cloven Like these, not light as a boy's: The tresses and tendrils inwoven That lure us, the lure of them cloys Thee. [Pg 216] Us
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