Classic Poem

Evening! A flight of pigeons in clear sky!
What wants there to allay love's fever now,
Goatherd! but that thy pipe should overflow,
While through the reeds the river murmurs by?
Here in the plane tree's shadow where we lie
Deep grows the grass and cool. Sit and allow
The wandering goat to scale yon rocky brow
And graze at will, deaf to the weanling's cry.

My flute — a simple thing, seven oaten reeds
Glued with a little wax — sings, plains, or pleads
In accents deep or shrill as I require;
Come! thou shalt learn Silenus' sacred art,
And through this channel breath'd will fierce desire
Rise, wing'd with music, from the o'er-labored heart.