O you with the five-stopped pipe
And delicate, close-webbed net and eyes that have stared
Into worlds unknown, what poor wild bird have you snared,
What plover or lark or snipe?
I roved to the rim of the world,
To the borders of life and death, to the glimmering land
Where matter and spirit are one, and I closed my hand
On a marvellous prey in the mouth of the net upcurled:
For while with the breath of dream
I filled the pipe and fingered the stops with the touch of thought,
In a web of sweet and intricate tunes I caught
God, to be caged awhile among things that seem.