  I met a crone 'twixt wood and wood, Who pointed down the piper's road With shaken staff and fearsome glance,— "Ware, ware the dance!" But when the piper me did greet, The wind, the wind was in my feet, The rose and leaf on eager boughs Unvestalled them of dew-writ vows, And I as light as leaf and rose Danced to the summer's close. Now every tree is weary grown, Of singing birds there is not one; All, all the world droops into grey,— O piper Love, must thou yet play? The wildest note of all he blew, And fast my worn feet flew. Are long, long gone; So chill, so chill the grey wind blows Through heart and bone; No grasses warm the winter ways That wound my feet; But with unwearied fingers yet, Bold, undelayed on stop and fret, Unmercifully sweet, The piper plays.... |
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