The Reed Player

I saw one put a hollow reed to his lips.

It was a forlorn, sweet air that he played,

an ancient forgotten strain learned

of a shepherding woman upon the hills.

The Song of Songs it was that he played:

and the beating of hearts was heard, and I

heard sighs, and a voice like a distant

bird-song rose and fell.

"Play me a song of Death," I said. Then

he who had the hollow reed at his lips smiled,

and he played again the Song of Songs.