10.08.2014, 13:10
THE BELATED PIPER
I KNOW that mine is but a bubbling pipe,
Blown in some lonely valley where the trees,
And flowers, and grass, and vagrant birds and bees,
Alone the music hear; long since was ripe
The time for piping; now swart fingers wipe
The sweat from labor's brow, and weary knees
Faint in the market-place ; yea, none seek ease
By streams where still some simple antitype
Of happy Pan trims him a slender reed
With nimble hands, and softly, sweetly winds
A tremulous melody. Yet every weed,
All common wayside herbs, and careless vines,
leach the deep secret of our human need —
The calm man ever seeks but never finds.
I KNOW that mine is but a bubbling pipe,
Blown in some lonely valley where the trees,
And flowers, and grass, and vagrant birds and bees,
Alone the music hear; long since was ripe
The time for piping; now swart fingers wipe
The sweat from labor's brow, and weary knees
Faint in the market-place ; yea, none seek ease
By streams where still some simple antitype
Of happy Pan trims him a slender reed
With nimble hands, and softly, sweetly winds
A tremulous melody. Yet every weed,
All common wayside herbs, and careless vines,
leach the deep secret of our human need —
The calm man ever seeks but never finds.