What was dear to Pan is dear to him no more,
He answers prayers never, nor ever appears—
And so sore a loss is this to his lovers
They play never, the sweet reed sounds no more

In the oak coppice, or the Severn poplar shade
Silver-hearted . . . Softly wailing at eve
The silent country folk no more bring gifts
They delighted in—nor the new pipe greenly made.