Echoes from Vagabondia

by Bliss Carman


 

THE FLUTE OF SPRING


I KNOW a shining meadow stream
That winds beneath an Eastern hill,
And all year long in sun or gloom
Its murmuring voice is never still.

The summer dies more gently there,
5
The April flowers are earlier,—
The first warm rain-wind from the Sound
Sets all their eager hearts astir.

And there when lengthening twilights fall
As softly as a wild bird’s wing,
10
Across the valley in the dusk
I hear the silver flute of spring.