HITHER, Wood-wind, lend thy lips
Where this mountain brooklet slips
Under alder, buck-eye, bay,
Oaken bough and willow spray;
Lend thy lips, and let the tone
Be like fairy bugles blown,
Fairy bugles blown afar
In the Land of Evening Star.
Hither, Wood-wind, touch thy tongue
To the flutes with garlands hung;
There are notes that only thou
Canst awake from branch and bough,
Notes that Pan with piping sweet
Charms Terpsichore’s light feet,
Or the softer notes that dwell
Deep in Orpheus’ golden shell.
Hither, Wood-wind, horns are here,
Elfin horns to woodmen dear,
Hanging at the ivory door
Of each spreading sycamore;
Breathe upon these alder boughs
And thy gentle strains shall rouse
Dreams that in hushed valleys dwell,
Crowned with wreaths of asphodel.
Hither, Wood-wind, thou dost know
Haunt of pebbly piccolo,
And the cave of clarionet
In the reeds with ripples wet;
There are diapason stops
In the sky-tipped redwood tops,
Blow thereon and we shall hear
Music of a primal year!
Welcome, Wood-wind, at our call;
Or was it the waterfall
Or a falling leaf’s low cry
That didst bid thee wander by ?
Breathe and blow and drive away
All the care and fret of day,
While the pine trees’ soft bassoon
Murmurs magic to the moon.