THE PIPER
The valley is clad in a misty white fog,
Where the Sun God dares not intrude,
The hoots of the night owls have dulled and have died,
And the whimpering night winds brood.
Over the purple-topped rims of the earth,
Riding a proud little breeze,
Are tinkling pipings that whisper that Pan,
Away from the haunts of humdrum man,
Has led forth the day from the seas....
Dancing and prancing o’er grove and o’er hill,
Rollicking, frolicking, gay,
Glad in the fragrance, and glad in the dawn,
And proud to be leading the day.
The grey gnomes that live in the fog hear his pipes,
And they hide in their thick weeping veils,
And they dwindle and melt at the sound of his mirth,
When his cloven hoofs dance in the dales.
Now the King of the Day has awakened at last,
And has climbed to his throne in the sky,
And the world is astir in its workaday tasks ...
But Pan has gone merrily by.
Now a child who lives in the village lane
Hears the reed notes and tries to pursue;
Fast he leaps over rocks on the heath on his way ...
All of a sudden the piping is near ...
Now it’s lost to him ... again, it is here ...
For sudden Pan comes ... e’er you grasp for his cheer,
Sudden he’s sung, and away.
Away from the heart of everyday folk
To the hills where the west wind blows;
Laughing and dancing and chasing the bees ...
(How dreary for them just to hum in their hives!)
When the brown brook is gurgling, and sings as it flows,
And the blood-red poppy smiles as it blows ...
Over the hills, and away ...
Smiles that Pan comes ... e’er you see him, he goes ...
Sudden he’s sung, and away.