WHEN April’s tinge was on the fringe
Of willows near the pool,
She clipt their shoots to fashion flutes
For children of her school;
She sloped the tips to suit the lips

Of rosiness around,
Drew forth the pith and shaped it with
The chambers of the sound.
His fancy said: “That way was made
The magic pipe of Pan,

Which crept so rare upon the air
It crazed a listening man.”

She took a flute and shrilled salute
Of Arcady so clear,
He felt the ring and chime of spring

Thrilling through his ear;
A mystic sense of rapt suspense
Mingled strange with all
The bubbling frogs, the echoing dogs,
The bluebirds’ mating call.

So sweet the charm, he felt no harm,
Yet there his craze began,
With every note her pulsing throat
Blew on the pipe of Pan.