Classic Poem

Where is Pan, Pan and the crowd,
Whose fresh soul loved what mirth avowed?
Where do the gossip dells repeat
The silver sounds of lady-feet?
Where are the Nymphs, all white and red?
Are they too, like dead Helen, dead?
If these times a winter were,
Such as Syrinx most should fear,
Threatening her sandy home
With pale fears of frosts to come;
Then 'twere easy to be said,
Until June break again, they are but fled.
Where is Pan, Pan and the crowd
Of delicate Nymphs, whose laughter loud
Made old Time young, and did renew
Those hills of green, those skies of blue?

The world is weary, they are gone;
We are now all tears and sighs;
Well they loved not such as mourn,
Heavy hours, and weeping eyes.
They found their haunts changed and forlorn;
The world is weary; they are gone.