To a Piccolo.
93
Entreating with pauses pathetic as prayer,
And ever renewing
Its exquisite wooing
In melting pulsations of hope and despair,
And ever renewing
Its exquisite wooing
In melting pulsations of hope and despair,
But the piccolo sings with the sweet, wanton, wild,
Shadowless glee of a little glad child,
Unconscious of genius or passion, its singing
Is like runnels of water through pearly caves ringing,
It curves into ripples that break and rebound,
Now rising, now falling,
Now merrily calling,
In the cheek of the night 'tis a dimple of sound.
Shadowless glee of a little glad child,
Unconscious of genius or passion, its singing
Is like runnels of water through pearly caves ringing,
It curves into ripples that break and rebound,
Now rising, now falling,
Now merrily calling,
In the cheek of the night 'tis a dimple of sound.
It runs, like the slight silver thread of a stream
That leaps with a flash and an opaline gleam,
Over waters whose turbulent shadowy places
Hold secrets deep down in their ebon embraces,
It is glad in itself, like the blossoms that wave
In warm, lissom whiteness,
Undimmed in their brightness
Above a bride's smile, or the turf of a grave.
That leaps with a flash and an opaline gleam,
Over waters whose turbulent shadowy places
Hold secrets deep down in their ebon embraces,
It is glad in itself, like the blossoms that wave
In warm, lissom whiteness,
Undimmed in their brightness
Above a bride's smile, or the turf of a grave.
