The Musician

How loudly and how surely the musician plays!
He was born piping in the beginning of his days;
Now he is elderly, with a small white beard,
He pipes as loudly as his parents feared —

But pipes more surely than his parents heard.
This the piping of a blithe and white-beard bird,
Perched on a pole with summer in his heart,
But drilled in all the discipline of art.

This is the music for the celebration of the sun;
Joy with a shade of sorrow, but of rancor none.
Strange that a small musician with a beard of snow
Should put all youth into his piping so.

And in deep memory his bent fingers play
Long after the sunset of his piping day.