EARLY before the unseen cricket-choir Beats its small cymbal, twangs its little lyre, When rosy-green the dawning sky's unblurred, Over the white road of the mountain fair, Wandereth slowly, playing an olden air, The drummer, handsome as an antique herd. Under the pines which sprinkle on the ways The glittering dews of dawn, he trills and plays On his clear fife, even like a whistling bird. His drum swings with its ribands green and long. He goes to sing a gallant morning song To the lady by whom all his songs are heard. He breathes into his pipe a merry air, Beating the time upon his drum from where The cadences of duller sound are sent. The little fife of ivory trills and rings, And the drum follows the bright song it sings With a monotonous, sad accompaniment. Drummer of love, lo, how our fate agrees! I, too, blend sad and merry melodies! It is my heart -- that sombre tone of ill, Heavier to carry than your drum, my lad! But always, o'er its plaintive notes and sad, That mocking pipe, my spirit, whistles still! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAPPER KAPLINSKI AT THE NORTH SIDE CUE CLUB by HAYDEN CARRUTH PARTING AT MORNING by ROBERT BROWNING SOTTO VOCE; TO EDWARD THOMAS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE A NICE CORRESPONDENT by FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON TO THE BELOVED by ALICE MEYNELL PRELUDE TO FAITH by MARJORIE MERRILL BLISS |