Where are the Pipes of Pan?

In these prosaic days
Of politics and trade,
When seldom Fancy lays
Her touch on man or maid,
The sounds are fled that strayed
Along sweet streams that ran;
Of song the world's afraid;
Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Within the busy maze
Wherein our feet are stayed,
There roam no gleesome fays
Like those which once repaid
His sight who first essayed
The stream of song to span,
Those spirits all are laid.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Dry now the poet's bays;
Of song-robes disarrayed
He hears not now the praise
Which erst those won who played
On pipes of rushes made,
Before dull days began
And love of song decayed.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Envoy.

Prince, all our pleasures fade;
Vain all the toils of man;
And Fancy cries dismayed,
" Where are the Pipes of Pan? "