Classic Poem

The flutes, the silver flutes began with dawn,
With dawn the flutes and hidden birds began;
All tremulous with stops the music ran
Of light, skilled fingers lifted or laid on;
The birds were practiced, too, and played upon
Obedient throats that tracked no casual plan:
For as they played they all looked up at Pan —
Nor had the flutes his leadership foregone.

Then I saw altars gleaming, marble-pure,
With fire — or day — too bright to shine in words
Again; I saw the satyr's quick pursuits,
The nymphs' delayed escapes, with yielding sure,
While — was it flutes that waked the hidden birds
Or birds that brought awakening to the flutes?