Flight of Pan

Lights through the leaves.

The tree sentries span

The god’s pet peeves.

The fellows bow

In abject joy

And greet the now

With their precocious boy.

No hindrance stands

After his wake

Throughout the lands

That his lithe dreamshades make.

No point of trespass

Mars the running scape.

No hint of sass

Interrupts an unshadowed shape.

The piece-of-works collect

In their unfettered groups:

The timeless select -

Lords over their dupes.