Ezra Pound

Pan Is Dead

‘Pan is dead. Great Pan is dead. Ah! bow your heads, ye maidens all, And weave ye him his coronal. ’ 'There is no summer in the leaves, And withered are the sedges; How shall we weave a coronal, Or gather floral pledges? ' 'That I may not say, Ladies. Death was ever a churl. That I may not say, Ladies. How should he show a reason, That he has taken our Lord away Upon such hollow season? '