"Stop! What are you doing?" "Playing on an old flute." "That's Heine's flute. You must n't touch it." "Why not, if I make it sound?" "I don't know why not, but you must n't." "I don't believe I can -- much. It's full of dust. Still, listen:" The rose moon whitens the lifting leaves. Heigh-ho! the nightingale sings! Through boughs and branches the moon-thread weaves. Ancient as time are these midnight things. The nightingale's notes over-bubble the night. Heigh-ho! yet the night is so big! He stands on his nest in a wafer of light And the nest was once a philosopher's wig. Moon-sharp needles and dew on the grass. Heigh-ho! it flickers, the breeze! Kings, philosophers, periwigs pass. Nightingales hatch their eggs in the trees. Wigs and pigs and kings and courts, Heigh-ho! rain on the flower! The old moon thinks her white, bright thoughts, And trundles away before the shower. "Well, you got it to play." "Yes, a little. And it has lovely silver mountings." |