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.