The Music Makers. Two Songs for Medium Voice and Piano on poems by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Frost

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
  Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
  With the dragon-fly on the river.
 
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
  From the deep cool bed of the river;
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
  Ere he brought it out of the river.
 
High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
  While turbidly flow'd the river;
And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
  To prove it fresh from the river.
 
He cut it short, did the great god Pan
  (How tall it stood in the river!),
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notch'd the poor dry empty thing
  In holes, as he sat by the river.
 
'This is the way,' laugh'd the great god Pan
  (Laugh'd while he sat by the river),
'The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
  He blew in power by the river.
 
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
  Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
  Came back to dream on the river.
 
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
  To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain --
For the reed which grows nevermore again
  As a reed with the reeds of the river.

Before man came to blow it right
     The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
     In any rough place where it caught.
 
Man came to tell it what was wrong:
     It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard—the aim was song.
     And listen—how it ought to go!
 
He took a little in his mouth,
     And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
     And then by measure blew it forth.
 
By measure. It was word and note,
     The wind the wind had meant to be—
A little through the lips and throat.
     The aim was song—the wind could see.