Pan
… Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
Amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves…
… Once there were paths that led to coracles
That clung to piers like loosening barnacles…
… where we cannot return, because we lost
The pebbles and the playthings, and the moss…
… hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair
Who never were enchanted, and the stairs…
… that led up to the Fortress in the trees
Will not support our weight, but on our knees…
… we still might fit inside those splendid hours
Of damsels in distress, of rustic towers…
… of voices of the wolves’ tormented howls
That died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels…
Originally published by Sonnet Scroll
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