He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,From the deep cool bed of the river.
He cut it short,Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
While turbidly flowed the river, And hacked and hewed as a great god can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed.
“This is the way,” laughed the great god Pan,“The only way since gods beganTo make sweet music they could succeed.”