-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?'