Pan In The Orchard

He carved a flute of elder green, And notched it well and true, Then pursed his lips and puffed his cheeks And merrily he blew. For it was spring-time holiday, A sun-tanned boy was he, With russet freckles on his face And a patch upon his knee. The apple boughs above him flung Their tangled sprays on high, With one dark, bristly blue-jay nest Rough sketched against the sky. He knew the secrets of the grass, The burden of the hour, He saw the fierce, bluff bumblebee Touse many a clover flower. Orphaned and poor as poor could be, The years before him lay Dark billows of an unknown sea, No light-house on the way. And yet, and yet his elder flute Could bring him comfort true; He pursed his lips and puffed his cheeks And blew, and blew, and blew!