THE FLUTE PLAYER

In the window’s shade ere the dusk has spread Over plain and hill, And the tulip-flowers in the garden-bed Have a glory still; When the world of toil and the world of ease Are alike at rest; I can hear him play in the belt of trees Where the fields slope west. And the notes run high and the notes run low In a rambling stream; Like an old voice calling from long ago, A dream of a dream. His eyes are afire with the secret light Of a land unknown, And the tree-stems echo his footsteps’ flight Upon moss and stone. There is no more staying nor rest for me When his flute is heard, It is out, out, out to the melody Without sign or word. The lamps may be lit in the shuttered room And the door be fast, Or a long day faint with a summer’s bloom On the hedges cast; Let the path be winding in crowded ways Or in woods profound, It is all forgotten when once he plays And I hear the sound. Though foot may ache and though heart may fail And the brain grow numb, It is follow, follow the flying trail Till the flute is dumb. For life was a breath of the early spring, When at first he came, And, now that the harvest is ripening, It is still the same; And it well may be when the last dusk falls On my little day, When the last sun colours the crumbling walls Of the house of clay; I shall hear him playing beyond the hill Where the fields slope west, And follow him on till his steps are still And the flute at rest.