Pan In The Orchard

Maurice Thompson

 Next Poem          

He carved a flute of elder green,
And notched it well and true,
Then pursed his lips and puffed his cheeks
And merrily he blew.

For it was spring-time holiday,
A sun-tanned boy was he,
With russet freckles on his face
And a patch upon his knee.

The apple boughs above him flung
Their tangled sprays on high,
With one dark, bristly blue-jay nest
Rough sketched against the sky.

He knew the secrets of the grass,
The burden of the hour,
He saw the fierce, bluff bumblebee
Touse many a clover flower.

Orphaned and poor as poor could be,
The years before him lay
Dark billows of an unknown sea,
No light-house on the way.

And yet, and yet his elder flute
Could bring him comfort true;
He pursed his lips and puffed his cheeks
And blew, and blew, and blew!

Next Poem 

 Back to Maurice Thompson

To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.