The Old Flute + 

The time will come when I no more can play + 

This polished flute: the stops will not obey + 

My gnarled fingers; and the air it weaves + 

In modulations, like a vine with leaves + 

Climbing around the tower of song, will die + 

In rustling autumn rhythms, confused and dry. + 

My shortened breath no more will freely fill + 

This magic reed with melody at will; + 

My stiffened lips will try and try in vain + 

To wake the liquid, leaping, dancing strain; + 

The heavy notes will falter, wheeze, and faint, + 

Or mock my ear with shrillness of complaint. + 

Then let me hang this faithful friend of mine + 

Upon the trunk of some old, sacred pine, + 

And sit beneath the green protecting boughs + 

To hear the viewless wind, that sings and soughs + 

Above me, play its wild, aerial lute, + 

And draw a ghost of music from my flute! + 

So will I thank the gods; and most of all + 

The Delian Apollo, whom men call + 

The mighty master of immortal sound⁠— + 

Lord of the billows in their chanting round, + 

Lord of the winds that fill the wood with sighs, + 

Lord of the echoes and their sweet replies, + 

Lord of the little people of the air + 

That sprinkle drops of music everywhere, + 

Lord of the sea of melody that laves + 

The universe with never silent waves⁠— + 

Him will I thank that this brief breath of mine + 

Has caught one cadence of the song divine; + 

And these frail fingers learned to rise and fall + 

In time with that great tune which throbs thro’ all; + 

And these poor lips have lent a lilt of joy + 

To songless men whom weary tasks employ! + 

My life has had its music, and my heart + 

In harmony has borne a little part, + 

And now I come with quiet, grateful breast + 

To Death’s dim hall of silence and of rest. + 