Pan come to us our heather yearns
The great Ent speaks
of your return!
He hears the wind blow
through leaves and fruit
He claims Pan lives
he hears his flute!

grogfellow@2005

Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas,
Can ye listen in your silence?
Can your mystic voices tell us
Where ye hide? In floating islands,
With a wind that evermore
Keeps you out of sight of shore?
Pan, Pan is dead.

Elizabeth Barret Browning, 1806-61, The Dead Pan

O goat-foot God of Arcady !
This modern world is grey and old,
And what remains to us of thee ?
...

Then blow some trumpet loud and free,
And give thine oaten pipe away,
Ah, leave the hills of Arcady !
This modern world hath need of thee !

Oscar Wilde, 1854-1900, 'Pan'