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Pan

This Pan is but an idle god, I guess,
Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams
He loiters listlessly by woody streams,
Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness;
Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress
Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams
Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems
Drugged with a joy unutterable-- unless
His low pipes whistle hints of it far out
Across the ripples to the dragon-fly

That like a wind-born blossom blown about,
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Lard Arze 09 January 2019

We can read for ourselves. It's depressing that there's a recording on here to distract from the text, especially a monotonous computerized one that doesn't give the option of opting out of it.

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