I
  Pan seized the reeds
  and bound them quickly.
Ah! they'd escape into the silent lake
and he'd be left in idleness and lust
to polish the horns of his forehead!
He wept as he worked. afraid that desire again
might wither and
the music fail,
that beauty might flee his new assault
in the mirror
or in the trees.
 
II
Laying his hollow mouth
upon the open reeds Pan
saw another love that memory never
captures or kills, a final abstraction
engaging pursuit in its delight.
The piano had not yet been invented, no one
had ever stood
with violin raised
to kiss a madly erotic maiden.
Pan's melody was
his handiwork.
III
All of us who play at
music fill our empty hearts
and slump beside an indifferent pool
in the passionless gloaming, hearing
in the pure geometry of tones
whatever complicated commentaries we wish.
Our motive's not
despicable, in play
we separate desire from the mirage
of sentiment and
ideal choice.

IV
Those who are not very fond
of the tangible evidences of love
shun music and are quiet, doctored by
memory and the martyrdom of Saint Cecilia.
The rest of us play and are played.
seeking like Pan the pattern of our true desire,
willing to follow
motive anywhere
to the tempo of failure and crime.
I wonder can a
virgin make music?
V
For this is necessary. Memory
is a soundless ruin, a habit of
mourning that builds no bridges or hands.
It sighs, a harp no love can search; memory
is without symmetry, supine and bad.
Even with sandwiches and a pocket flask we die
among its black
houses. My dear!
seek things seriously on your flute!
I want you,
tomorrow!

VI
Here, on the phonograph and
in the hall of mountainous
heroes, Schoenberg praises our beauty
and the difficulty of our best chances.
He sings of Cleopatra, not of you, poor
Cecilia, who knew not even the fragile dream of
Mélisande's fare.
Mean pathos! His
voice is too great, too great, it would
burst your
prudent heart!
VII
Impoverished Cecilia! flowers
sent from heaven mean nothing!
They should have been carelessly picked
and strewn about your head and thighs.
And l don't like your instrument, it
embarrasses Pan and all lovers with its machinery.
Music is
incidental
to your virgin contraption, proud girl!
Ah! Cecilia! you
did not love us!

VIII
Beautiful girl, had you been
more the prodigal, less the saint,
intimate music would have called you close
at hand; no monster chewing fingers and
belching into bottles at an intellectual
remove, would have revealed your virtue’s artifice!
Fie, Cecilia!
your instrument
will never lead us in war or love!
Today we hallow
others' songs!