Anthology of Massachusetts Poets, page 29 by Anonymous
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the sun,
A brown One, a hoofed One, pipes against the gale.
Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me.
I was on the mountain, wandering, wandering;
No one but the pine trees and the white birch knew.
Over rocks I scrambled, looked up and saw that
Strange Thing,
Peaked ears and sharp horns, pricked against the
blue.
Oh, and, how he piped there! piped upon the high
reeds
Till the blue air crackled like a frost-film on a pool!
Oh, and how he spread himself, like a child whom
no one heeds,
Tumbled chuckling in the brook, all sleek and kind
and cool!
He had berries 'twixt his horns, crimson-red as
cochineal.,
Bobbing, wagging wantonly they tickled him, and oh,
How his deft lips puckered round the reed,
seemed to chase and steal
Sky-music, earth-music, tree-music low!
I said "Good-day, Thou!" He said, "Good-day,
Thou!"
Wiped his reed against the spotted doe-skin on his back,
He said, "Come up here, and I will teach thee piping
now.
While the earth is singing so, for tunes we shall not
Lack."
Up scrambled I then, furry fingers helping me.
Up scrambled I. So we sat beside the cairn.
Broad into my face laughed that horned Thing so
Naughtily.
Oh, it was a rascal of a woodland Satyr's bairn!
'So blow, and so, Thou! Move thy fingers faster, look!
Move them like the little leaves and whirling midges.
So!
Soon `twill twist like tendrils and out-twinkle like
the lost brook.
Move thy fingers merrily, and blow! Blow! Blow!"
Brown One! Hoofed One! Beat time to keep me
Straight.
Kick it on the red stone, whistle in my ear.
Brush thy crimson berries in my face, then hold
Thy breath, for-wait!
Joy comes bubbling to me lips. I pipe, oh, hear!
Blue sky, art glad of us? Green wood, art glad of
us?
Old hard-heart mountain, dost thou hear me, how
I blow?
Far away the