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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=416737" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Pipes O' Pan At Zekesbury</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=416737" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The pipes of Pan! Not idler now are they<br>Than when their cunning fashioner first blew<br>The pith of music from them: Yet for you<br>And me their notes are blown in many a way<br>Lost in our murmurings for that old day<br>That fared so well, without us.--Waken to<br>The pipings here at hand:--The clear halloo<br>Of truant-voices, and the roundelay<br>The waters warble in the solitude<br>Of blooming thickets, where the robin's breast<br>Sends up such ecstacy o'er dale and dell,<br>Each tree top answers, till in all the wood<br>There lingers not one squirrel in his nest<br>Whetting his hunger on an empty shell.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=James+Whitcomb+Riley">James Whitcomb Riley</a></strong></div>

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