The Flute

"Stop! What are you doing?"
"Playing on an old flute."
"That's Heine's flute -- you mustn't touch it,"
"Why not, if I can make it sound."
"I don't know why not, but you mustn't."
"I don't believe I can -- much. It's full of dust.
Still, listen:

The rose moon whitens the lifting leaves.

Heigh-o! The nightingale sings!

Through boughs and branches the moon-thread
Ancient as time are these midnight things.

The nightingale's notes over-bubble the night.
Heigh-o! Yet the night is so big!

He stands on his nest in a wafer of light,
And the nest was once a philosopher's wig.

Moon-sharp needles, and dew on the grass.
Heigh-o! It flickers, the breeze!
Kings, philosophers, periwigs pass;
Nightingale eggs hatch under the trees.

Wigs, and pigs, and kings, and courts.
Heigh-o! Rain on the flower!
The old moon thinks her white, bright thoughts,
And trundles away before the shower.

"Well, you got it to play."

"Yes, a little. And it has lovely silver mountings."