Poems on the Flute
And broke upon her ear in trills of sound,
So light and gay, that frolic revelry,
And murmurs sweet . . .
Filled with soft laughter all the air around.
Then gushed in glee a little tune
She knew full well, but made so bright with showers
Of liquid notes, 'twas like a meadow brook,
Whose face is kissed by sudden April rain."
So light and gay, that frolic revelry,
And murmurs sweet . . .
Filled with soft laughter all the air around.
Then gushed in glee a little tune
She knew full well, but made so bright with showers
Of liquid notes, 'twas like a meadow brook,
Whose face is kissed by sudden April rain."
[The flautist then plays a quiet measure.]
"How sweet and low
Sang then the happy spirit in the flute!
Like some far distant chimes from some old tower,
Speaking of peace and calm serenity
At sunset hour.
Sang then the happy spirit in the flute!
Like some far distant chimes from some old tower,
Speaking of peace and calm serenity
At sunset hour.
[He then plays a martial measure.]
She listened, while to joy again
Changed the rich tones. So thrilling, strong, and free,
With such wild passion, power and energy
Leapt they from forth the slender instrument."
Changed the rich tones. So thrilling, strong, and free,
With such wild passion, power and energy
Leapt they from forth the slender instrument."
Louisa N. Alcott has written a pretty poem on Thoreau's flute, telling how after his death—
"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 blue-bird chants a requiem,
The willow blossom wails for him.
The genius of the wood is lost.
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 blue-bird chants a requiem,
The willow blossom wails for him.
The genius of the wood is lost.
245
