Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE OLD PIPER, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: With ears undulled of age, all night he heard Last Line: As though still listening to the otterburn. | ||||||||
With ears undulled of age, all night he heard The April singing of the Otterburn. His wife slept quietly and never stirred, Though he was restless and must toss and turn -- But she kept going all the day, while he Was just a useless bundle in a chair, And couldn't do a hand's turn -- seventy-three, And crippled with rheumatics... It was rare, Hearing the curlew piping in the dark! 'Twas queer he'd got his hearing still so keen. He'd be so bothered if he couldn't hark To curlew piping, shrill and clear and clean -- Ay, clean, that note! His piping days were done, His fingers numb and stiff. And by the peat All winter, or all summer in the sun, He'd sit beside the threshold, in his seat, Day-long, and listen to the Otterburn That sang each day and night a different tune. It knew more airs than he could ever learn Upon the small-pipes. January to June, And June to January, every hour It changed its music. Now 'twas shrilling clear In a high tinkling treble with a power Of mellow undertones. And to his ear Even the spates of winter over stones Made no dull tuneless thundering; he heard No single roar, but half a hundred tones Eddying and swirling; blending, yet unblurred; No dull-edged note, but each one razor-keen -- Though supple as the sword-blades interlaced Over the morris-dancers' heads -- and clean! But, nay, there was no word for it. 'Twas waste Of breath to try and put the thing in words, Though on his pipes he'd get the sense of it, The feel -- ay, even of the calls of birds He'd get some notion, though low-toned a bit -- His humming drone had not that quality Of clean-cut piping. Any shepherd lad Upon his penny-whistle easily Could mimic the mere notes. And yet he had A gift of feeling, somehow ... He must try To-morrow if he couldn't tune his pipes, Must get his wife to strap them carefully... Hark, a new note among the birds -- a snipe's -- A small-pipe's note!... Drowsing, he did not wake Until his wife was stirring. Nor till noon He told her that he'd half-a-mind to take His pipes and see if he could turn a tune If she would fetch them. And regretfully She brought the pipes and strapped them on and set The bellows under his arm, and patiently She held the reeds to his numb fingers. Yet She knew 'twas worse than useless. Work and years Had dulled that lively touch: each joint was stiff And swollen with rheumatics... Slowly tears Ran down his weathered cheeks... And then a whiff Of peat-reek filled his nostrils: and quite still He sat remembering. Memory was kind And stript age off him. And along the hill By Golden Pots he strove against the wind -- In all his days he never again had known A wind like thon -- on that November day. For every step that he took forward, blown Half-a-step backward, slowly he made way Against it, buffeted and battered numb, Chilled to the marrow, till he reached his door, To find Jack Dodd, the pitman piper, come To play a contest with him... Nevermore There'd be such piping! Ay, Jack Dodd had heard That he could play -- that up among the hills There was a lad could pipe like any bird, With half-a-hundred fancy turns and trills, And give a lead even to Jack himself, Jack Dodd, the pitmen's champion! After tea When they had smoked a while, down from the shelf He'd reached his own small-pipes; and speedily They two were at it, playing, tune for tune, Against each other all the winter's night, And all next morning till the stroke of noon, Piping out bravely all their hearts' delight. He still could see Jack, sitting there, so lean, Long-backed, broad-shouldered, stooping and white-faced With cropped black head, and black eyes burning keen; Tight-lipped, yet smiling gravely: round his waist His small-pipes strapped, the bellows 'neath his arm, His nimble fingers lively at the reeds, -- His body swaying to the lilting charm Of his own magic piping, till great beads Of sweat were glistening on his low, white brow. And he himself, a herd-lad, yellow-haired, With wide eyes even bluer then than now, Who sat bolt-upright in his chair and stared Before him at the steady glowing peat As though each note he played he caught in flight From the loud wind, and in the quivering heat Could see it dancing to its own delight. All night the rafters hummed with piping airs, And candle after candle guttered out; But not a footstep climbed the creaky stairs To the dark bedrooms. Turn and turn about, They piped or listened; while the wind without Roared round the steading, battering at the door As though to burst it wide; then with a shout Swept on across the pitchy leagues of moor. Pitman and shepherd piping turn for turn, The airs they loved, till to the melody Their pulses beat; and their rapt eyes would burn Thrilled with the sight that each most loved to see -- The pitman, gazing down a gallery Of glittering black coal, an endless seam: And through his piping stole the mystery Of subterranean waters, and of dream Corridors dwindling everlastingly. The shepherd, from the top of Windy Gile Looking o'er range on range of glowing hills, A world beneath him, stretching, mile on mile, Brown bent and heather, laced by flashing rills, -- His body flooded with the light that fills The veins with running gold. And April light And wind, and all the melody that spills From tumbling waters, thrilled his pipes that night. Ay, thon was playing, thon! And nevermore The world would hear such piping. Jack was dead, And he, so old and broken. By the door All day he sat remembering; and in bed He lay beside his sleeping wife all night, Too spent, too weary, even to toss and turn. Dawn found him lying, strangely cold and white, As though still listening to the Otterburn. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BETWEEN THE LINES by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON BREAKFAST by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON FLANNAN ISLE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON FOR G. by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON GERANIUMS by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON LAMENT by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON RETREAT by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON RUPERT BROOKE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE GORSE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE ICE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON |
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