Pan’s Flute
S
TRANGE that a slender withe can hold
Within its silken thread a thing
So poignant, that a willow tree
Beside a stream has power to bring
One far-off May day back again,
Where a boy with a whittling, tapping blade
Shapes a whistle, and gives girl
The exquisite gift that his hands have made.
And there on a windy hill they stand,
The wild flowers tossing about their feet,
A whistle between the girl’s red lips,
And a sudden high note, shrill and sweet,
Pierces the air as a bird takes wing
Swift as the wind . . . Oh, I never see
A willow fringing a stream in spring
But that May morning comes back to me.
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