Swords and Plowshares/The Veery's Note
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WHEN dear old Pan for good and all
Was driven from the woods he cherished,
How much he took beyond recall!
How many mysteries paled and perished!
The satyrs capered in his train,
While dryads trod a solemn measure,
Casting a backward glance in vain
On every haunt they used to treasure.
Was driven from the woods he cherished,
How much he took beyond recall!
How many mysteries paled and perished!
The satyrs capered in his train,
While dryads trod a solemn measure,
Casting a backward glance in vain
On every haunt they used to treasure.
And having thus from glade and glen
Drawn by his pipe each sylvan wonder,
Pan, ere he vanished, turned again,
And broke his pipe of reeds asunder.
He broke his pipe, and cast away
In heedless wrath and grief behind him
The notes that he alone could play—
Then fled where we shall never find him.
Drawn by his pipe each sylvan wonder,
Pan, ere he vanished, turned again,
And broke his pipe of reeds asunder.
He broke his pipe, and cast away
In heedless wrath and grief behind him
The notes that he alone could play—
Then fled where we shall never find him.
The breezes tossed the notes about,
And dropped them in ravines and hollows;
Many were lost, beyond a doubt,
In nooks where echo never follows;
But here and there a silent bird,
Dejected with a nameless yearning,
Picked up a trembling note unheard
That set his heart and throat a-burning.
And dropped them in ravines and hollows;
Many were lost, beyond a doubt,
In nooks where echo never follows;
But here and there a silent bird,
Dejected with a nameless yearning,
Picked up a trembling note unheard
That set his heart and throat a-burning.
The nightingale, they say, found one
Beneath a moonlit thicket lying.
The lark, while soaring near the sun,
Caught his upon the wing a-flying.
And so the bobolink and thrush
Found ready-made their strains of magic,
Which make us laugh with glee, or hush
With sympathy for all that's tragic.
Beneath a moonlit thicket lying.
The lark, while soaring near the sun,
Caught his upon the wing a-flying.
And so the bobolink and thrush
Found ready-made their strains of magic,
Which make us laugh with glee, or hush
With sympathy for all that's tragic.
But one unearthly minor tone
That told how Pan's great heart was broken,
Exiled and homesick and alone
With cadences of things unspoken—
The witchery of a wild regret,
Vibrant, monotonous, and weary,
With hopeless longing to forget—
Fell to your lot, my woodland veery.
That told how Pan's great heart was broken,
Exiled and homesick and alone
With cadences of things unspoken—
The witchery of a wild regret,
Vibrant, monotonous, and weary,
With hopeless longing to forget—
Fell to your lot, my woodland veery.
Yon tanagers are gay and red,
Indigo blue the bunting near them,
A yellow warbler flits o'erhead—
Their songs and plumage both endear them.
The veery's coat is dull and dun;
He hides, and stills his song above you
At the least sound; yet, modest one,
More than all other birds I love you!
Indigo blue the bunting near them,
A yellow warbler flits o'erhead—
Their songs and plumage both endear them.
The veery's coat is dull and dun;
He hides, and stills his song above you
At the least sound; yet, modest one,
More than all other birds I love you!
I love you, for anew you stir
The old, inexplicable feeling.
I love you as interpreter
Of mysteries upon me stealing.
I love you, for you give a tongue
To silence. True, you are not cheery,
But where has songster ever sung
A note as weird as yours, my veery?
The old, inexplicable feeling.
I love you as interpreter
Of mysteries upon me stealing.
I love you, for you give a tongue
To silence. True, you are not cheery,
But where has songster ever sung
A note as weird as yours, my veery?