Beneath the pines he piped and swayed,
Master of passion and of power;
He was his soul and what he played,
Immortal for a happy hour.
He, singing into nature’s heart,
Guiding his will by the world’s will,
With deep, unconscious, childlike art
Had sung his soul out and was still.
And then at evening came the bark
That stirred his dreaming heart’s desire;