Piper Of The Past

I sit beside the sweeping waters,
Letting fancy free, and through
The vast realms of Time comes to me
A far-off cry, wailing through the ages
Like a shepherd's pipe, calling, calling.
Methinks that on a distant field
I see fair blooms, whose heads
Have rested neath the tread of hosts,
And folds that grazed in quietude, nibbling
The roots of the sward, and listening for that pipe!
Oh, where is he whose lips pressed some rude reed,
Or yet whose hands caressed the magic opes,
That thrilled with his warm breath,
Pulsing, speaking his youth,
And plaintively re-echoing his desires?
Where is he who trod the sheep's path,
Unenlightened, giving his labor,
His sweat in dumb submission,
Yet whispering to his pipe,
Loosing his heart's burning, till the notes
Dropped like heavy lusterful pearls,
Each glowing with the ember of Hope?
Where is he? I sit wondering, and the pipe
Persistently re-echoes like a call!