Shepherds contend no more, as all day long
They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprus plain:
The master-voice is silent, songs are vain;
Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong
Done by the gods, when gods and men were strong,
Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain.
O sweetest singer of the olden days,
In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead;
The gods are gone, but poets never die;
Though men may turn their ears to newer lays,