Explore "Mid-May" by Olive Tilford Dargan on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Hand clamped to desk, / And eyes on task undone, / I see a meadow pool, / With shaken willows silvering. / O, gods that trouble me, / Wherefore, wherefore? -- / Pan is at the door.
An arabesque / Of sifted sun / And forest star-grass, cool / With shadows tunnelling: / Witch-work that tauntingly / Webs my bare floor: / Ah, Pan is at the door.
I'm civilized, / And in my veins / The mountain brook is still / As water in a jar; / But oh, the heart hill-born, / It paineth sore, / For Pan is at the door.
Ye sacrificed / Of earth, what rains / Have wept their will / And drowned your rebel star, / That ye should sit forlorn, / Telling Greed's score, / When Pan is at the door?