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James Whitcomb Riley - Pipes O` Pan At Zekesbury
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The pipes of Pan! Not idler now are they
  Than when their cunning fashioner first blew
  The pith of music from them: Yet for you
  And me their notes are blown in many a way
  Lost in our murmurings for that old day
  That fared so well, without us.--Waken to
  The pipings here at hand:--The clear halloo
  Of truant-voices, and the roundelay
  The waters warble in the solitude
  Of blooming thickets, where the robin`s breast
  Sends up such ecstacy o`er dale and dell,
  Each tree top answers, till in all the wood
  There lingers not one squirrel in his nest
  Whetting his hunger on an empty shell.
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