The descendant of that reed
The shepherds played in Attica,
Drowsing to the indolence of their brown bodies,
I peck the eyes of silence
With the vulture-beak of my primeval harshness.
Yet the high keys of an organ
Are rivals lean to mine,
Sonorous in primitive ingenuities
Which blister the most Wagnerian cynics[1]
With their clear-dropping, honey-comb dripping notes.