WHEN I remember I am nigh to weep: How he would hold the flute unto my lip, And, smiling, set me level with his heart, Swearing I beat him at his own smooth art. 'Twas he who taught my faltering lip to draw Sweet breath unbrokenly and without flaw Of suavest melody; my hands unskilled By his deft hands over the stops were drilled; 'Twas thus I learnt, though still with blundering heed, To close the gaps upon the sounding reed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AUTUMN WOODS by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM by THOMAS MOORE THE FAMILY MAN by JOHN GODFREY SAXE TO JOHN DRYDEN, ESQ.; POET LAUREATE AND HISTOGRAPHER ROYAL by PHILIP AYRES THE LAST MAN: CONCEALED JOY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |