The Whistler

A poem by Virna Sheard

Throughout the sunny day he whistled on his way -
Oh high and low, and gay and sweet,
The melody rang down the street,
Till all the weary, old, and grey,
Smiled at their work, or stopped to say,
"Now God be thanked that youth is fair,
And light of heart, and free from care."

What time the wind blew high, he whistled and went by -
Then clarion clear on every side
The song was scattered far and wide;
Like birds above a storm that fly
The silver notes soared to the sky,
"O soul, whose courage does not fail
But with a song can meet the gale."

And when the rain fell fast, he whistled as he passed -
A little tune the whole world knew,
A song of love, of love most true;
On through the mist it came at last
To one by sorrow overcast,
"Dear Christ," she said, "by night and day
They serve who praise, as well as pray."

Though the great world was white, he whistled in the night -
The sky was spangled all with gold,
The bitter wind was keen and cold,
Yet, gay musician, out of sight,
You still put wintry thoughts to flight,
For summer follows where you fare,
0 Whistler, so debonair.

And when the fog hung grey, he whistled on his way -
The little children in his train
With rosy lips caught up the strain.
Then I, to hear what he might say,
Followed with them, that sombre day.
"Is it for joy of life," quoth I,
"Good sir, you go awhistling by?"
He smiled, and sighed, and shook his head,
"I cheer my own sad heart," he said.

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