NOTES
elders; that yellow flute, very melodious in its tone, which his brother John used to play. In these sad surroundings she wrote: —
Thoreau's Flute
| We sighing said, “Our Pan is dead — |
| His pipe hangs mute beside the river, |
| Around it friendly moonbeams quiver, |
| But music's airy voice is fled. |
| Spring comes to us in guise forlorn, |
| The blue-bird chants a requiem, |
| The willow-blossom waits for him, |
| The genius of the wood is gone” |
| Then from the flute, untouched by hands, |
| There came a low, harmonious breath: |
| For such as he there is no death. |
| His life the eternal life commands. |
| Above men's aims his nature rose. |
| The wisdom of a just content |
| Made one small spot a continent, |
| And turned to poetry life's prose |
| Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, |
| Swallow and aster, lake and pine |
| To him seemed human or divine, |
| Fit mates for this large-hearted child. |
| Such homage Nature ne'er forgets; |
| And yearly on the coverlid |
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