The Silken Tassel/The Flute of Krishna
The Flute of Krishna
Blow, Krishna, blow thy flute!
Thy soul is streaming through its words,
And all the woods are mute;
And dumb are all the twittering birds,
And quarrelling wives leave their dispute,
Hearing thy magic-flute.
Thy soul is streaming through its words,
And all the woods are mute;
And dumb are all the twittering birds,
And quarrelling wives leave their dispute,
Hearing thy magic-flute.
Play, Krishna, play thy pipe!
It shines with all thy spirit’s light,
Deck’d with the rainbow-stripe;
The shut buds open fair and bright
And take their colours from its type,
When gleams thy glorious pipe!
It shines with all thy spirit’s light,
Deck’d with the rainbow-stripe;
The shut buds open fair and bright
And take their colours from its type,
When gleams thy glorious pipe!
Blow, Krishna, blow thy flute!
Thy love has flooded all our homes
And we run charm’d and mute!
The wind no more in forests roams;
We come to thee all, man and brute,
And ever hear thy flute!
Thy love has flooded all our homes
And we run charm’d and mute!
The wind no more in forests roams;
We come to thee all, man and brute,
And ever hear thy flute!
Play, Krishna, play thy pipe!
The trees lay out their boughs unseen
And fruits grow red and ripe;
Blow high and low!—thy voice serene
Will from our hearts our sorrows wipe:
Thy joy-unfolding pipe!
The trees lay out their boughs unseen
And fruits grow red and ripe;
Blow high and low!—thy voice serene
Will from our hearts our sorrows wipe:
Thy joy-unfolding pipe!