Frozen Rushes

Who is this satyr that with shepherd crook.
And fillet of dead pansies in his hand
Issues from forest-cranny to this nook.
Where in a phalanx frozen rushes stand?
'Tis Pan among the thick-spiked icicles.
O see, through all this winter, his device
To get down to the pith where music swells.
To clear the reed-bed from its ribs of ice.
Nay, push not with thy finger 'mid the stones
At the pool's edges where the water drips.
Nay, fret not for thy Syrinx — she is safe;
Thou canst not draw her music to thy lips.'
A withered god among the briars he moans,
And breathes upon the reeds as he would chafe.