Classic Poem

Upon the hills I left my sheep;
Shepherd no more was I,
With staff and scrip a watch to keep;
My flocks were of the sky.

I ran down to the river-reeds;
I set the foremost loose;
I made it ready for my needs,
And sweet enough for use.

The rude East smote me where I stood;
The stars were great and few;
Sudden, along the expectant wood,
A wavering note I blew.

Fog wrapped me in a winding-sheet;
Nor sky nor road was clear;
I blew a note so echoing sweet
The night rose up to hear.

The kine came from the pastures chill;
The flock came from the fold;
By tavern-sides the folks sat still;
The dead stirred in the mold.

Ere yet the dark was at its close,
Quaking I blew once more;
The silence petaled like a rose,
And all my song was o'er.

Myriad and golden past the wood,
The spears of morn grew plain;
Empty within the light I stood
And broke my reed in twain.