Making a Man a mere wind-swayed reed,
And moving the mob like a leaf indeed
By a chill wind set a-quiver.
He finds it sport, does our new god Pan
(As did he of the reeds by the river),
To take all the pith from the heart of a man,
To make him a sheep—though a tiger in spring,—
A cruel, remorseless, poor, cowardly thing,
With the whitest of cheeks—and liver!
"Who said I was dead?" laughs the new god Pan