(17 November 1861 - 10 February 1899 / Morpeth, Ontario)

The Song Of Pan

Mad with love and laden
With immortal pain,
Pan pursued a maiden--
Pan, the god--in vain.

For when Pan had nearly
Touched her, wild to plead,
She was gone--and clearly
In her place a reed!

Long the god, unwitting,
Through the valley strayed;
Then at last, submitting,
Cut the reed, and made,

Deftly fashioned, seven
Pipes, and poured his pain
Unto earth and heaven
In a piercing strain.

So with god and poet;
Beauty lures them on,
Flies, and ere they know it
Like a wraith is gone.

Then they seek to borrow
Pleasure still from wrong,
And with smiling sorrow
Turn it to a song.

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