The Greek god, Pan, a goat-like man, loves sylvan glens.
On flute he’d sport, dance and cavort, to much appeal,
while searching damsels in the local fields and fens.
This satyr found ideal, a maiden most surreal.
Syringa had created passion in his mind,
but she rejected Pan, and ran through woods to stream.
At edge, some spirits pledge to make her hard to find.
They turned her to a lilac. Pan had lost his dream.
But then, winds whispered through her wood.
Pan thought the music very good.
He found her to be, a very musical tree.
So he cleverly took her, trimmed her stems and tips,
creating fragrant flute. His passion meant to be.
Now she’s a constant consort, often at his lips.