YOUNG PAN HAULS METHODISTS AWAY

It’s sienna all the way,

It’s lady-slippers, grass deliriums.

No bookish God is peeping

With a scimitar inside his fist

These hours droll with liberty.

So let’s abuse a clover bed

And pull the wind about us

Like a coverlet. Oh splendid news!

One hundred horses drive the sun,

Young Pan hauls Methodists away,

And flights of nuns are caught

In zigzags of vociferous bees....