Explore "The Old Flute (Music)" by Henry Van Dyke on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The time will come when I no more can play / This polished flute: the stops will not obey / My gnarled fingers; and the air it weaves / In modulations, like a vine with leaves / Climbing around the tower of song, will die / In rustling autumn rhythms, confused and dry.
My shortened breath no more will freely fill / This magic reed with melody at will; / My stiffened lips will try and try in vain / To wake the liquid, leaping, dancing strain; / The heavy notes will falter, wheeze, and faint, / Or mock my ear with shrillness of complaint.