The Shepherd.
By Margaret Steele Anderson
(On a fragment by De Bussy.)
Thy slender form I think I see
On winter hills of Tuscany,
Thy slender pipe I think I hear,
So very faint, so very clear.
That lonely reed! It seems to me
To sing thine own simplicity,
For thou art but a child and young,
How should 'st thou know a subtler tongue?
Then, still a child, I pray thee pass!
I would not see thee with a lass.
Nor follow thee o'er grass and rock.
As thou dost lead some larger flock.
Ah no! That little, wilding pipe
I would not give for one more ripe;
E'en glad were I to hear it spent
Unchanged, and thou still innocent!