I did not cut myself this hollow reed, I did not seek it in the shallows growing. In all my life I paid but little heed To burnished reeds in the bright shallows blowing. And this that now is thrust into my hand Mysteriously cut and tuned for singing Was gathered in a strange and distant land And has immortal airs about it clinging. An unseen piper tuned its ghostly note. O who would dare to touch it -- who would dare? From out the fearful hollow of its throat Such music pours as I am unaware How to devise. I did not think these things. It is the reed, it is the reed that sings. |