Though Syrinx your Pans Mistres were, Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.
"The Poetical Works of John Milton" by John Milton
There, there, that one who's playing on a 'syrinx of seven reeds.
"Yama (The Pit)" by Alexandra Kuprin
He has been sent by Pan to fetch fruits for the entertainment of 'His paramour the Syrinx bright.
"Pastoral Poetry and Pastoral Drama" by Walter W. Greg
SYRINX, an Arcadian nymph, who, being pursued by Pan, fled into a river, was metamorphosed into a reed, of which Pan made his flute.
"The Nuttall Encyclopaedia" by Edited by Rev. James Wood
You expect the syrinx to unfold the story of the reed in light song.
"Adventures in the Arts" by Marsden Hartley
Pan, falling in love with the Nymph Syrinx, she flies from him; on which he pursues her.
"The Metamorphoses of Ovid" by Publius Ovidius Naso
For a lyre outshone by my syrinx hast thou sold all thine empire to me.
"Wisdom, Wit, and Pathos of Ouida" by Ouida
This is the story of Syrinx, the reed, as Ovid has told it to us.
"A Book of Myths" by Jean Lang
Near the lower end of the trachea, just above the lungs, there is a specialized organ of the bird's throat called the syrinx.
"Our Bird Comrades" by Leander S. (Leander Sylvester) Keyser
For this is the sound of the hoof of Pan, stamping on the moist earth, as he rages for Syrinx.
"Visions and Revisions" by John Cowper Powys
With a broken syrinx there,
From enameled beds of buds,
Rises Pan in hoof and hair--
Moonlight his dim sculpture floods.
"Serenade" by Madison Julius Cawein
The flying Syrinx turned and sped
By dim, mysterious hollows,
Where night is black, and day is red,
And frost the fire-wind follows.
"Syrinx" by Henry Kendall
Breathe in thy syrinx Freedom's breath,
Quaver the fresh and true,
Dispel this lingering wintry mist of death
And charm the world anew!
"An Early Bluebird" by Maurice Thompson
And lingering by each haunt he knew,
Of fount or sinuous stream or grassy marge,
He set the syrinx to his lips, and blew
A note divinely large;
"Favorites of Pan" by Archibald Lampman
Genius, that wind-worn reed, unsightly, rude,
Notched by some strong, untutored artisan;
That golden lyre, that lute of jeweled wood,
That syrinx blown by furry lips of Pan!
"To A Realist" by Maurice Thompson
Through the dark reeds wet with rain, past the singing foam
Went the light-foot Mysian maids, calling Hylas home.
Syrinx felt the silver spell fold her at her need.
Hear, ere yet you say farewell, the wind along the reed.
"The Little Fauns To Proserpine" by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall