A day when April willows fringed the pool
Of fifty years ago with freshening gold,
Myself came trudging from the country school
With my tall grandsire of the wars of old;
His peaceful pen-knife trimmed a ravished shoot,
Nicked deep the green and hollowed out the white,
To fashion for the child a willow flute,
His age exulting in the shrill delight;
"For so," he said "my grandsire made
⁠The sweetest whistle ever blew,
When I and he were you and me
⁠And all the world was new."

Now grandson "Billy" snuggles palm in mine,
"Over the hills," he blows, "and far away."
O pipe of Arcady, how clear and fine
Thy single note salutes the yearning day!
The breeze in branches bare, the whistling wing,
The subtle-bubbling frog, the blue-birds call,
The quivering sounds of ever-piercing Spring,
That one thin willow note attunes them all:
And, far and near at once, I hear
⁠The sweetest whistle ever blew,
Lilting again the older strain,
⁠And all the world is new.