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I call to Pan, son of fleet-footed Hermes,
ever in the company of vine-crowned Dionysos,
cherished companion of full-hearted Rhea,
playmate of the mischievous nymphs. In Arcadia
were you well loved, O Pan; in sylvan groves
and deep-hewn grottos did shepherds and their sweethearts
speak your name, joyously, prayerfully, lovingly;
in cities and in villages your altars stood,
in woodlands and in flowered fields your shrines were raised.
Sweet is the sound of your pipes, O Pan, nimble the feet
of the pretty maids who follow in your dance.
Yours are all the country pleasures, the rustic song,
the simple revel; yours too the soul-seizing
dread called panic, that causeless fear that grasps and clings;
yours the open heart of passion. Pan, I call to you.
ever in the company of vine-crowned Dionysos,
cherished companion of full-hearted Rhea,
playmate of the mischievous nymphs. In Arcadia
were you well loved, O Pan; in sylvan groves
and deep-hewn grottos did shepherds and their sweethearts
speak your name, joyously, prayerfully, lovingly;
in cities and in villages your altars stood,
in woodlands and in flowered fields your shrines were raised.
Sweet is the sound of your pipes, O Pan, nimble the feet
of the pretty maids who follow in your dance.
Yours are all the country pleasures, the rustic song,
the simple revel; yours too the soul-seizing
dread called panic, that causeless fear that grasps and clings;
yours the open heart of passion. Pan, I call to you.
