The dews were on the hedges, <br />The mist was on the mead, <br />When down among the sedges <br />I wrought my pipe of reed. <br />I blew my pipe with power. <br />Men only cursed the sound <br />That woke them when the hour <br />Brought back their labor’s round. <br /> <br />The scythe was in the barley, <br />The sickle in the wheat; <br />The pipe I made so early <br />Had lost its tones so sweet. <br />And weary man and maiden, <br />Upon the glowing soil, <br />My reed-pipe fell upbraiding <br />That lightened not their toil. <br /> <br />The men had left their mowing, <br />The maids to bind the sheaves; <br />I took me for my blowing <br />A wheatstraw stripped of leaves. <br />And cares all ceased to cumber, <br />No voice was now upraised; <br />I piped them all to slumber, <br />And in their dreams was praised.<br /><br />Francis William Bourdillon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-piper-4/
