Evening is here. Some pigeons cross the sky. <br />Nothing so well an amorous fever chains <br />As when with pipe to lip its soothing strains <br />Blend with the rush-grown stream's fresh melody. <br /> <br />In shade of plane-tree where at ease we lie <br />The grass is soft. Let, friend, that goat which feigns <br />Indifference to the trembling kid she weans, <br />Climb up the rock and browse the herbage nigh. <br /> <br />With seven unequal stems of hemlock made, <br />Well joined with wax, my flute, or sharply played <br />Or grave, will weep, or moan, or joyous sing. <br /> <br />Come. Try Silenus' art that knows no death, <br />And thy sad sighs of love will take to wing <br />Amidst thy sacred pipe's harmonious breath.<br /><br />Jose Maria de Heredia<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-flute-5/
