To a Piccolo.
94
Then pipe on, sweet piccolo! thou whom I love,
Coo in thy silver-soft throat like a dove,
Murmur like airs through sea-dreaming shells stealing,
Then chime out like f airy hells suddenly pealing,
And through all soft laughters entrancingly twine,
Pipe on, little rebel,
In exquisite treble
And teach our dull spirits the magic of thine.
Coo in thy silver-soft throat like a dove,
Murmur like airs through sea-dreaming shells stealing,
Then chime out like f airy hells suddenly pealing,
And through all soft laughters entrancingly twine,
Pipe on, little rebel,
In exquisite treble
And teach our dull spirits the magic of thine.
The Country Calls Me.
The country calls me,
Not the town,
Where all day long
The people throng
And myriad feet
Impatient beat
An endless pattern on the street.
They come, they go,
How can one know
From whence or why
They hurry by?
Not the town,
Where all day long
The people throng
And myriad feet
Impatient beat
An endless pattern on the street.
They come, they go,
How can one know
From whence or why
They hurry by?
