The Penny Whistle

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The Penny Whistle

The new moon hangs like an ivory bugle

In the naked frosty blue;

And the ghylls of the forest, already blackened

By Winter, are blackened anew.

The brooks that cut up and increase the forest,

As if they had never known

The sun, are roaring with black hollow voices

Betwixt rage and a moan.

But still the caravan-hut by the hollies

Like a kingfisher gleams between:

Round the mossed old hearths of the charcoal-burners

First primroses ask to be seen.

The charcoal-burners are black, but their linen

Blows white on the line;

And white the letter the girl is reading

Under that crescent fine;

And her brother who hides apart in a thicket,

Slowly and surely playing

On a whistle an olden nursery melody,

Says far more than I am saying.