Later Poems

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 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.