Tell me, piper, have I ever Heard thy hollow syrinx quiver Trickling music in the trees? Where the hazel copses shiver, Have I heard its dronings sever The warm silence, or the bees? Ripple murmurings that never Could be born of fall or river, Or the whispering breeze.
Once in tempest it was given Me to see thee,--where the leven Lit the craggy wood with glare,-- Dancing, while,--like wedges driven,-- Thunder split the deeps of heaven, And the wild rain swept thy hair.-- What art thou, whose presence, even While with fear my heart was riven, Healed it as with prayer?
Soul of my body! what a death For such a day of grief and gloom, Unbroken sorrow of the sky!-- 'Tis as if God's own loving breath Had swept the piled-up thunder by, And, bursting through the tempest's sheath, Cleft from its pod a giant bloom.
See how the glory grows! unrolled, Expanding length on radiant length Of cloud-wrought petals.--Vast, a rose The western heavens of flame unfold, Where, sparkling thro' the splendor, glows The evening star, fresh-faced with strength-- A raindrop in its heart of gold.
White moons may come, white moons may go, She sleeps where early blossoms blow; Knows nothing of the leafy June, That leans above her, night and noon, Crowned now with sunbeam, now with moon, Watching her roses grow.
The downy moth at evening comes And flutters round their honeyed blooms: Long, languid clouds, like ivory, That isle the blue lagoons of sky, Grow red as molten gold and dye With flame the pine-dark glooms.
Dew, dripping from wet fern and leaf; The wind, that shakes the blossom's sheaf; The slender sound of water lone, That makes a harp-string of some stone, And now a wood-bird's twilight moan, Seem whisp'rings there of grief.
Her garden, where the lilacs grew, Where, on old walls, old roses blew, Head-heavy with their mellow musk, Where, when the beetle's drone was husk, She lingered in the dying dusk, No more shall know that knew.
Her orchard,--where the Spring and she Stood listening to each bird and bee,-- That, from its fragrant firmament, Snowed blossoms on her as she went, (A blossom with their blossoms blent) No more her face shall see.
White moons may come, white moons may go, She sleeps where early blossoms blow; Around her headstone many a seed Shall sow itself; and briar and weed Shall grow to hide it from men's heed, And none will care or know.