Page:Thoreau's flute, a poem.djvu/9





We, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead;

His pipe hangs mute beside the river;—

Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,

But Music's airy voice is fled.

Spring mourns as for untimely frost;

The bluebird chants a requiem;

The willow-blossom waits for him;—

The Genius of the wood is lost."