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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=449966" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Thoreau's Flute</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead; <br>His pipe hangs mute beside the river <br>Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, <br>But Music's airy voice is fled. <br>Spring mourns as for untimely frost; <br>The bluebird chants a requiem; <br>The willow-blossom waits for him; <br>The Genius of the wood is lost." </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then from the flute, untouched by hands, <br>There came a low, harmonious breath: <br>"For such as he there is no death; <br>His life the eternal life commands; <br>Above man's aims his nature rose. <br>The wisdom of a just content <br>Made one small spot a continent <br>And turned to poetry life's prose. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, <br>Swallow and aster, lake and pine, <br>To him grew human or divine, <br>Fit mates for this large-hearted child. <br>Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, <br>And yearly on the coverlid <br>'Neath which her darling lieth hid <br>Will write his name in violets. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">"To him no vain regrets belong <br>Whose soul, that finer instrument, <br>Gave to the world no poor lament, <br>But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. <br>O lonely friend! he still will be <br>A potent presence, though unseen, <br>Steadfast, sagacious, and serene; <br>Seek not for him -- he is with thee."</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Louisa+May+Alcott">Louisa May Alcott</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=449966" data-title="Thoreau's Flute de Louisa May Alcott" data-description="We sighing said, "Our Pan is dead; His pipe hangs mute beside the river Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, But Music's airy voice is fled. Spring mourns as for untimely frost; The bluebird chants a requiem; The willow-blossom waits for ..."></div> </div> </div>
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