Page:Thoreau's flute, a poem.djvu/9

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THOREAU'S FLUTE


By LOUISA M. ALCOTT

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We, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead;
His pipe hangs mute beside the river;—
Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,
But Music's airy voice is fled.
Spring mourns as for untimely frost;
The bluebird chants a requiem;
The willow-blossom waits for him;—
The Genius of the wood is lost."