Classic Poem

Where are the elfin, minor strains of Pan
That down the moonbeams to my sleep would glide,
To sport among the harp strings of my dreams
And wake the sleeping harmony to smile?
War sounds his brazen trumpet o'er the world,
Shattering the inner ear with loud discord,
Scorching the Muse's acolytes with flame,
And with'ring Beauty with a Kaiser's laugh.
Yet, is Pan dead? Sometimes above the din
Of brutal, bloody strife, dim, heart-heard notes
Call to my soul like ghosts of yearning sounds—
I will find Pan! My Inner Self will go
To green- and gold-shot glades, deep drowned in peace,
To look and listen, follow inner sounds,
Elusive as the asking eyes of Love.
Through whisp'ring colonnades that will not tell,
Though well they know,—and whisper, on and on,
With flushed face kissed by perfumed Dryad breaths;
On with delightful hopes unrealized,
And yet always to be. . . . and elfin-far,
Pan's fairy flute notes ever just ahead.