Explore "Pan in the Catskills" by Bliss Carman on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
They say that he is dead, and now no more / The reedy syrinx sounds among the hills, / When the long summer heat is on the land. / But I have heard the Catskill thrushes sing, / And therefore am incredulous of death, / Of pain and sorrow and mortality.
In these blue canyons, deep with hemlock shade, / In solitudes of twilight or of dawn, / I have been rapt away from time and care / By the enchantment of a golden strain / As pure as ever pierced the Thracian wild, / Filling the listener with a mute surmise.
At evening and at morning I have gone / Down the cool trail between the beech-tree boles, / And heard the haunting music of the wood / Ring through the silence of the dark ravine, / Flooding the earth with beauty and with joy / And all the ardors of creation old.
And then within my pagan heart awoke / Remembrance of far-off and fabled years / In the untarnished sunrise of the world, / When clear-eyed Hellas in her rapture heard / A slow mysterious piping wild and keen / Thrill through her vales, and whispered, "It is Pan! "