Who is Pan? I am he,
I and no other man —
Reading, shaving, drinking tea,
Clothed like any man you see,
Hornless, hoofless, I am Pan.

If you meet me in the city
You will scarcely think me wild,
Find me neither dull nor witty,
Claiming neither praise nor pity
For a wandered forest child.

You will chatter unaware
To a satyr groomed and grave,
Squatting meekly on a chair
With clean hands and barbered hair,
Behaving as he should behave.

You may note a sudden flash
From eyes like those of gypsy man,
Sinews tougher than the ash,
Just a hint of careless dash
Underneath a coat of tan.

But never gypsy hears the call
I am hearing night and day,
Lifting clearly over all
The city's thunderous waterfall,
To lure a lonely heart away.

The call of thrush like silver bell
Thrice smitten by an elfin hand,
The way the sunset robins tell
The woodland world that all is well
But only a god can understand.

The creak and croak of heavy crow,
The rain-wet wind among the trees,
The crickets' dry persistent bow,
The white-throat and the vireo
And all the minor melodies.

Ere the stars have left the trail,
Ere the dawn has filled the hollow,
I'll be racing through the swale,
Sweeping like a noiseless gale
Where no human foot can follow.

What the lure around the bend?
What the undiscovered goal?
Can the silent places send
Some bright day before the end
Surcease for a satyr's soul?

Is it nymph or hamadryad
With red berries in her hair?
Syrinx, Phoebe, river naiad?
Some slim pixie god-inspired
Who awaits her lover there?

Or will she, reaching out to me,
The sunlight on her form and face,
Invoke the gods of jealousy
And disappear in stream or tree,
Leaving my heart an empty place?

Leaving her beauty unpossessed,
To haunt the solitudes of Pan?
And I, relinquishing the quest,
Laugh and grow foolish with the rest —
Hornless, hoofless, just a man!