Pan with Us
Acquainted With the Night The Armful The Black Cottage Blue-Butterfly Day A Boundless Moment The Code The Death of the Hired Man Departmental The Door in the Dark A Dream Pang Dust of Snow Evening in a Sugar Orchard Fire and Ice Flower-Gathering Fragmentary Blue The Generations of Men Ghost House In Hardwood Groves In Neglect Into My Own The Kitchen Chimney Love and a Question Mending Wall The Mountain My Butterfly My November Guest Nothing Gold Can Stay October The Onset Out, Out -- The Oven Bird Pan with Us A Patch of Old Snow A Peck of Gold A Prayer in Spring Reluctance Revelation The Road Not Taken Sand Dunes Spring Pools Stars Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening The Thatch To E.T. The Trial by Existence The Tuft of Flowers The Vanishing Red The Vantage Point A Winter Eden The Wood-Pile
Pan came out of the woods one day,-- His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray, The gray of the moss of walls were they,-- And stood in the sun and looked his fill At wooded valley and wooded hill. He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand, On a height of naked pasture land; In all the country he did command He saw no smoke and he saw no roof. That was well! and he stamped a hoof. His heart knew peace, for none came here To this lean feeding save once a year Someone to salt the half-wild steer, Or homespun children with clicking pails Who see so little they tell no tales. He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach A new-world song, far out of reach, For sylvan sign that the blue jay's screech And the whimper of hawks beside the sun Were music enough for him, for one. Times were changed from what they were: Such pipes kept less of power to stir The fruited bough of the juniper And the fragile bluets clustered there Than the merest aimless breath of air. They were pipes of pagan mirth, And the world had found new terms of worth. He laid him down on the sun-burned earth And raveled a flower and looked away-- Play? Play?--What should he play?