Fancy has been burnt at the stake of Fact; and the imagination cramped
in the irons of tort and quibble. O vanity of vain words! O cozening, deceitful art!
Nimbly do the great ones of to-day wrestle with the evil-smelling breath of their mouths,
twisting and contorting it into beguilement, bastardizing and corrupting the essence of
things, sucking as a greedy vampire the blood from your hearts, and breathing into your
nostrils the rigid symbols of law and of order, begotten on the death-bed of their
understanding.O children of Wonder and of Fancy, fly to the wild woods whilst yet there is time! Back to the mysteries of the shadowy oaks, to the revolt of imagination, to the insurrection of souls, to the moonlit festivals of love: back where the werewolf lurks, and the moon rakes prowl. Back, O back to the song of life, back to the great God Pan! And there, wrapped in your goat-skins, drink with the shepherds of Tammuz out of the skin of a suckling yet unborn, and ye shall become as the silver-gleaming waters of Ishtar --- pure and bright!
Speed, for he is the divine king of the fauns and the satyrs, the dryads and the oreads;
the Lord of the Crowns; the Decider of Destiny; the God who prospers all above and
beneath! And tarry not, lest as ye wander along the shore of the Ionian Sea ye hear a
voice of lamentation crying, "Great Pan is dead!"Images @ Melonpopzdropz Flickr
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