我们叹息着说:“我们的潘死了;他的笛子无声地挂在河边，惆怅的阳光在它周围颤动，但音乐的轻快的声音却消失了。春天哀悼过早的霜冻;蓝鸟唱安魂曲;柳花等着他;森林的天才不见了。”接着，从笛子里传出一种低沉而和谐的呼吸声，没有人碰触过它:“有了他，就不会有死亡;他的生命是永生的命令;人的本性超越了人的目标。一个正直的人的智慧把一个小地方变成了一个大陆，把诗歌变成了生活的散文。 "Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, Swallow and aster, lake and pine, To him grew human or divine, Fit mates for this large-hearted child. Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, And yearly on the coverlid 'Neath which her darling lieth hid Will write his name in violets. "To him no vain regrets belong Whose soul, that finer instrument, Gave to the world no poor lament, But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. O lonely friend! he still will be A potent presence, though unseen, Steadfast, sagacious, and serene; Seek not for him -- he is with thee."