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?