On dim laburnum-blossoms, and morning’s dying star,
“I think of thee, (O mine the more if other eyes be sleeping!)
Whose great and noonday splendors the many share and see,
While sacred and forever, some perfect law is keeping
The late, the early twilight, alone and sweet for me.”
What is the piper piping when the thin sweet sound comes down the valley like water dripping from stair to rocky stair, or “petals from blown roses on the grass”? You do not need to guess. You know it is in absolute accord with the night breeze and the long shadows and the hylas fluting in the year. It is music only, and all your heart answers is:
“Piper, pipe that song again.”
Here, too, is that poignant lament, To a Dog’s Memory.
“The gusty morns are here,