Pan In The Orchard

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!