Explore "Pan (Sonnets)" by James Whitcomb Riley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
This Pan is but an idle god, I guess, / Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams / He loiters listlessly by woody streams, / Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness; / Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress / Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams / Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems / Drugged with a joy unutterable -- unless / His low pipes whistle hints of it far out / Across the ripples to the dragon-fly / That like a wind-born blossom blown about, / Drops quiveringly down, as though to die -- / Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt / Whether to fan his wings or fly without.