A Singer / Elizabeth Gibson Cheyne

A Singer
You came – a god – across the thirsty plain: Lo, all the toil-worn earth grew young again.

You sang: a dryad leapt from every tree To drink the rapture of your melody.

You piped: and in the shady woodland ways The nymphs and satyrs danced in woven maze.

You passed: each tree its lonely secret keeps, Yet in the flowing stream your music sleeps.