When the dulcimers are mingled with the dust
Of flowering chestnut, and their lean fretted necks
Are slain maple stalks, their strings dull threads of rust,
Where shall the mellow voice be heard upon the hills,
Upon what pennyroyal meadow, beside what rills?
Where shall the gentle words in mild abandon sing
With sweet design in loitering melody
As flights of swallows aimless on the wing,
Yet skilled as scythes that curve through yellow grain
And fragrant as jasmine after freshening rain?
Or may the heart’s breath on the slender reed
Sing bright virelays to match the oriole?—
The tulip tree the lyre that one must heed
When the dulcimers are gone, when afternoons attend
The silver underleaf of poplars in the wind?