In the spring-time of our world,
In sunshine pure and golden,
There lolled the satyr,
Pan,
Beside a stream
Upon the greenest, softest bank.
He sat and dreamed alone…
Nearby, the wood-nymph,
Syrinx,
Unaware of horned and hoofed half-man,
Sang her song of joy.
Pan heard her silver sounds,
Sat up,
Shook pointed ears,
Yawned
And stretched,
Put cloven foot upon the ground.
All unaware,
Sweet Syrinx went her dainty way.
Half-beast, half-man,
Pan
Followed.
Spying his shadowed form
Stalking through leafy glade,
Poor wood-nymph, trembling and afraid,
Ran –
She ran from Pan,
Who followed, fleet of foot,
Stretched out his hand –
He almost had her –
“Save me, dear gods of the river,”
she cried in despair.
And,
As Pan’s hand clasped her waist,
She vanished.
He held,
In her place,
A handful of reeds…
Poor Pan,
Poor lonely half-beast half-man,
In his grief
Snapped the reeds,
And bound the pieces together.
Sad and sweet,
On silvery pipes,
His heartbroken sobs
Echo
Through misty, mysterious time.
Copyright © Isabel Bradley
