What play you O Boy? Through the garden it stole

Like wandering steps like a whisper—then mute;

What play you O Boy? Lo! your gypsying soul

Is caught and held fast in the pipes of Pan’s flute.

And what conjure you? Imprisoned is the song

It lingers and longs in the reeds where it lies;

Your young life is strong but how much more strong

Is the longing that through your music sighs.

Let your flute be still and your soul float through

Waves of sound formless as waves of the sea

For here your song lived and it wisely grew

Before it was forced into melody.

Its wings beat gently its note no more calls

Its flight has been spent by you dreaming Boy!

Now it no longer steals over my walls—

But in my garden I’d woo it to joy.