Pan's Frolicsome Guffaw
Pan’s Frolicsome Guffaw
’Tis the eve of The Equinox.
Methinks I hear midst Boreas’ frozen rattlings,
an unsticking of great Pan’s frolicsome guffaw;
a cheering hint of his sweet pipe!
The warming sun doth his winter’s musings thaw,
his slumberous desire arousing.
His torpid chill’d soul methinks unbends
in vernal cabbage nigh, in newly trickled streams;
Finish’d then to be, his frosty
abjuration of sweet Syrinx!
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