The Old Flute

The time will come when I no more can playThis polished flute: the stops will not obeyMy gnarled fingers; and the air it weavesIn modulations, like a vine with leavesClimbing around the tower of song, will dieIn rustling autumn rhythms, confused and dry.My shortened breath no more will freely fillThis magic reed with melody at will;My stiffened lips will try and try in vainTo wake the liquid, leaping, dancing strain;The heavy notes will falter, wheeze, and faint,Or mock my ear with shrillness of complaint.

Then let me hang this faithful friend of mineUpon the trunk of some old, sacred pine,And sit beneath the green protecting boughsTo hear the viewless wind, that sings and soughsAbove me, play its wild, aerial lute,And draw a ghost of music from my flute!

So will I thank the gods; and most of allThe Delian Apollo, whom men callThe mighty master of immortal sound,--Lord of the billows in their chanting round,Lord of the winds that fill the wood with sighs,Lord of the echoes and their sweet replies,Lord of the little people of the airThat sprinkle drops of music everywhere,Lord of the sea of melody that lavesThe universe with never silent waves,--Him will I thank that this brief breath of mineHas caught one cadence of the song divine;And these frail fingers learned to rise and fallIn time with that great tune which throbs thro' all;And these poor lips have lent a lilt of joyTo songless men whom weary tasks employ!My life has had its music, and my heartIn harmony has borne a little part,And now I come with quiet, grateful breastTo Death's dim hall of silence and of rest.