Pan, oh Pan...thou, great great God, thou great again, I say...of fertile earthy lusts, of forests, fields, and streams...of shepherds, sworn to feed their flocks of goat and sheep and all the wild things. Thou, minister of 'rousings and of risings, from the groins of men, of feelings from all souls of gentle mien.
I, here, have heard thee call, and sweet it is...too sweet by far, to e'er deny; whose Syrinx songs, those paean 'hymn evoking' strains, Elysian, do lilt on air's, of myth'd Acadia; to ears of mine...again.
I, here, have heard thee call, and sweet it is...too sweet by far, to e'er deny; whose Syrinx songs, those paean 'hymn evoking' strains, Elysian, do lilt on air's, of myth'd Acadia; to ears of mine...again.
Canst thou be? I know thou are. More, feel the way it were, so long ago...transforming all with sense to hear, to youthfulness, to flow'ring desire, than dead and arid moral pretense, proud'd by the precept's of all lie. I beg, again, to be the way we were...before we lost our way.
For man, the natural creature, has been turned from that, designed by God, to fester in a closet filled with shame, enamored of the whispers of all fallen saints, that he has sinned...thus, must repay of penitence, to gatherer's of secrets and of power.
And so, they wait...their sorcery's to snare, their books of black lines damning every man to hell...for bearing homely horns, that gift God gave of pleasure and of earthy life...and set a garden there, beyond a door...that some might find, if ever he should overcome.
Great Pan, the ghastly guns, of every fearful man, are set upon the death of every creature...yet you still are kind to some, as poets know. You watch us all and choose among. Please, Lord of wild, of mountain pastures no man knows...I come. You know I come...in meadows verde...to lay me down.
Forgive, I pray, allow thy servant in, for thou art he, maligned, unknown...the father of us all, progenitor.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: From Wind In The Willows, artist Paul Bransom-original title 'Piper At The Gates Of Dawn'
For man, the natural creature, has been turned from that, designed by God, to fester in a closet filled with shame, enamored of the whispers of all fallen saints, that he has sinned...thus, must repay of penitence, to gatherer's of secrets and of power.
And so, they wait...their sorcery's to snare, their books of black lines damning every man to hell...for bearing homely horns, that gift God gave of pleasure and of earthy life...and set a garden there, beyond a door...that some might find, if ever he should overcome.
Great Pan, the ghastly guns, of every fearful man, are set upon the death of every creature...yet you still are kind to some, as poets know. You watch us all and choose among. Please, Lord of wild, of mountain pastures no man knows...I come. You know I come...in meadows verde...to lay me down.
Forgive, I pray, allow thy servant in, for thou art he, maligned, unknown...the father of us all, progenitor.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: From Wind In The Willows, artist Paul Bransom-original title 'Piper At The Gates Of Dawn'
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