In Fletcher’s short lyric, a pine tree takes on the voice of Pan and murmurs a drowsy invitation to someone heartsick and alone. The speaker hears the song like liquid fire in his veins, at once soothing and strangely intense. Pan tells him to lie down in the long grass and let the hours pass unseen: not to stir for dawn, noon, or evening, but to wake only at twilight, when the last light sprays across the sky. Dawn and twilight, he says, are what belong to such a person. The mood is dreamlike and pagan, full of soft colour, bare skin, petals, and pollen. It feels less like escape than surrender—a lulling call to let sadness dissolve into the forest’s own breathing, watched over by low pipes and grass.
Irradiations XII — Summary
The pine, rough-bearded Pan of the woods Whispered in my ear his sleepy-sweet song. Like liquid fire it ran through my veins. Thus he piped: Sad, lonely son of the woods, Lie down in the long still grass and sleep, Ere the dawn has hidden her swelling breasts, Ere the morning has covered her massive flanks, With the flame-coloured mantle of noon. Lie down in the dewless grass nor awake To see whether afternoon has hurried in From the rim of her purple robe dropping dim flowers Golden flowers with pollen-dusty cups, Flowers of silence. Heed not though eve Should sail, a grey swan, in the pool of the sky, Spreading low ripples. Heed these not! Only awake when slim twilight Plunges her body in the last blown spray of the sun! Awake, then, for twilight and dawn are your day: Therefore lie down in the long dim grass and sleep, And I will blow my low pipes over you.