F .
W . Stokoe .
Pipe me your
golden
notes
Of noonday
sound ,
Luring
the sunny motes
In magic
round
Where
summer
quiet
floats
In
glooms spell-bound.
Calling
clear
and
calling
low,
Deeper
down
the woods you
go,
Piping
soft
and
piping
slow
.
Pipe me
the call
at
last
That
is
for
me
:
Sudden
and
soaring
fast
And
stooping
free
,
Over
the hills
it
passed
Beside
the
sea
.
Calling
,
calling
,
wild
and
sweet
Whither
went
no
mortal
feet
,
Piping
soft
and
piping
fleet
.
181