A Book of Myths, by Jean Lang - Umnet

"Is it because the wild-wood passion still lingers in our hearts, because
still in our minds the voice of Syrinx lingers in melancholy music, the
music of regret and longing, that for most of us there is so potent a spell
in running waters?"
Fiona Macleod.
As the evening shadows lengthen, and the night wind softly steals
through the trees, touching with restless fingers the still waters of the
little lochans that would fain have rest, there can be heard a long, long
whisper, like a sigh. There is no softer, sadder note to be heard in all
Pan's great orchestra, nor can one marvel that it should be so, for the
whisper comes from the reeds who gently sway their heads while the
wind passes over them as they grow by lonely lake or river.
This is the story of Syrinx, the reed, as Ovid has told it to us.
In Arcadia there dwelt a nymph whose name was Syrinx. So fair she
was that for her dear sake fauns and satyrs forgot to gambol, and sat in
the green woods in thoughtful stillness, that they might see her as she
passed. But for none of them had Syrinx a word of kindness. She had
no wish for love.
"But as for Love, truly I know him not, I have passionately turned my
lips therefrom, And from that fate the careless gods allot."
Lady Margaret Sackville.
To one only of the gods did she give her loyal allegiance. She
worshipped Diana, and with her followed the chase. As she lightly sped
through the forest she might have been Diana herself, and there were
those who said they would not know nymph from goddess, but that the
goddess carried a silver bow, while that of Syrinx was made of horn.
Fearless, and without a care or sorrow, Syrinx passed her happy days.
Not for all the gold of Midas would she have changed places with those
love-lorn nymphs who sighed their hearts out for love of a god or of a
man. Heartwhole, fancy free, gay and happy and lithe and strong, as a
young boy whose joy it is to run and to excel in the chase, was Syrinx,