We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead; <br />His pipe hangs mute beside the river <br />Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, <br />But Music's airy voice is fled. <br />Spring mourns as for untimely frost; <br />The bluebird chants a requiem; <br />The willow-blossom waits for him; <br />The Genius of the wood is lost." <br /> <br />Then from the flute, untouched by hands, <br />There came a low, harmonious breath: <br />"For such as he there is no death; <br />His life the eternal life commands; <br />Above man's aims his nature rose. <br />The wisdom of a just content <br />Made one small spot a continent <br />And turned to poetry life's prose. <br /> <br />"Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, <br />Swallow and aster, lake and pine, <br />To him grew human or divine, <br />Fit mates for this large-hearted child. <br />Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, <br />And yearly on the coverlid <br />'Neath which her darling lieth hid <br />Will write his name in violets. <br /> <br />"To him no vain regrets belong <br />Whose soul, that finer instrument, <br />Gave to the world no poor lament, <br />But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. <br />O lonely friend! he still will be <br />A potent presence, though unseen, <br />Steadfast, sagacious, and serene; <br />Seek not for him -- he is with thee."<br /><br />Louisa May Alcott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thoreau-s-flute/
