Classic Poem

“Stop! What are you doing?”
“Playing on an old flute.”
“That's Heine's flute—you mustn't touch it.”
“Why not, if I can make it sound.”
“I don't know why not, but you mustn't.”
“I don't believe I can—much. It's full of dust. Still, listen”:

—The rose moon whitens the lifting leaves.
—Heigh-o! The nightingale sings!
—Through boughs and branches the moon-thread weaves.
—Ancient as time are these midnight things.

—The nightingale's notes over-bubble the night.
—Heigh-o! Yet the night is so big!
—He stands on his nest in a wafer of light,
—And the nest was once a philosopher's wig.

—Moon-sharp needles, and dew on the grass.
—Heigh-o! It flickers, the breeze!
—Kings, philosophers, periwigs pass;
—Nightingale eggs hatch under the trees.

—Wigs, and pigs, and kings, and courts.
—Heigh-o! Rain on the flower!
—The old moon thinks her white, bright thoughts,
—And trundles away before the shower.

“Well, you got it to play.”
“Yes, a little. And it has lovely silver mountings.”