The Piper

When the quiet of the woods is there,
And the sun is sinking low,
And the shadows pass on soft, cool wings
To the river’s smooth flow;
I hear the call of the little things,
That rustle along the ground,
And the piper of the woods, unnamed,
Pipes a lullaby all around.

The crickets, choristers to the dusk,
Among the fallen leaves,
Chirp out their songs in the wilds of air,
While the evening weaves
A tapestry rich in purple hue,
And the stars begin to rise;
I listen to the whispers soft
That float from the shadowy skies.

O little woods, where the piper plays
His flute, so sweet and clear,
Your mystery deepens in the folds
The night draws near;
Till the heart of man, in the silence caught,
Devices the passing breath
Of nature’s secret, the hidden thought,
Of the great beyond, of death.

• Charles GD Roberts