Who plays the pipes in this sun-dappled glade?
One note -- and then two --  do you  hear?
It must be Great Pan who is drawing you near
To His butterfly meadow.  So don't be afraid,
But dance in the arms of your lover the sun --
Surrender your feet to the tune.
Be warmed by the music of Pan's afternoon.
Rejoice!  For the Sabbat's begun.

Fear not the sight of the rise of the moon
But dance in the arms of your lover the dark --
It's Pan's flute you hear in the song of a lark
And it sings counterpoint with the loon.
Be lost in the rapture, beguiled by the beat,
Be crazed by the pounding of nude prancing feet.
Be drunk on the rhythm, the flute-driven trance,
Bewitched by the drums of the dance.

The tempo grows faster, and faster again,
So whirl in the arms of your lover the night --
The music and song give the Goddess delight
As Pan plays His pipes in the glen.
Then Pan plays a coda as daylight draws near
And you sleep in the arms of your lover the dawn.
Three notes -- then two -- and then nearly gone --
An echo you ever can hear.