The Flute

A poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson

FROM HILALI

Hark, what, now loud, now low, the pining flute complains,
Without tongue, yellow-cheeked, full of winds that wail and sigh;
Saying, Sweetheart! the old mystery remains,--
If I am I; thou, thou; or thou art I?

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'The Flute' by Ralph Waldo Emerson

comments powered by Disqus