For whom glad days have ever yet to run,

And moments are as æons, and the sun

But ever sunken half-way toward the west.

Often to me who heard you in your day,

With close wrapt ears, it could not choose but seem

That earth, our mother, searching in what way,

Men's hearts might know her spirit's inmost dream,

Ever at rest beneath life's change and stir,

Made you her soul, and bade you pipe for her.

II.

In those mute days when spring was in her glee,

And hope was strong, we knew not why or how,

And earth, the mother, dreamed with brooding brow.

Musing on life, and what the hours might be,

[Pg 7]

When love should ripen to maternity,

Then like high flutes in silvery interchange

Ye piped with voices still and sweet and strange,

And ever as ye piped, on every tree

The great buds swelled; among the pensive woods

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