If poetry comes not so naturally as leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. - Keats
In my young years she loved me, and a seven-fluted,
A fine-toned panpipe gave me, and as I half-muted
Sounds wrung from out its depths, as my limp fingers touched
The hollow, tuneful reed, she by me sat and watched
And smiled to hear me play with skill that slow was growing
Hymns by the gods inspired and too the songs sweet-flowing
That in a bygone age the Phrygian shepherds sang.
With music all day long the silent oak grove rang
As taught I was by her, a privilege accorded
In secret to a few; at times the Maid rewarded
My diligence: her curls she'd fling back from her face
And from me take the pipe and play with such sweet grace
That by her breath revived and powers celestial granted
The reed was, and the heart with sacred song enchanted.