Who said the gods were dead? This very morn
I saw Pan tying on one ruddy horn
A sprig of golden broom. And where the foam
Of pink boronia tossed, he made his home.
The creek reeds for his pipe, again he blew
A leafy lay of freedom till he drew
My spirit like a thread of air along,
And mixed me, strangely drunken, with his song.
Time said it was November waiting there
To drown the gold October in her hair.
How could that be when Pan himself arose
And danced for me till I stood on tiptoes;
And took the wind for partner while he played
His old Arcadian music in the glade.
This very, very morn in spite of time,
Piercing his ears with train-shrieks out of rhyme?
First published in The Bulletin, 23 November 1922
