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Rachel Lyman Field

The Piper

I had a willow whistle,

I piped it on the hill.

The grass reached up, the sky bent down,

And all the world grew still.

Now up, now down the rounded holes,

My fingers fluttered light,

And little notes came trooping out

As thick as elves by night.

They turned themselves into a tune

More clear than drops of dew,

More sweet than almond trees, more soft

Than clouds the moon slips through.

Oh, good it was to be alone—

To pipe there on the hill,

With bending sky, and reaching grass,

And all the world grown still.