pan with us
Added: Aug 21, 2008
Author: billkilpatrick
Duration: 2:58
"pan with us" - a poem by robert frost set to music (of a sort) by bill kilpatrick:PAN came out of the woods one day —His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,The gray of the moss of walls were they —And stood in the sun and looked his fillAt wooded valley and wooded hill.He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,On a height of naked pasture land;In all the country he did commandHe saw no smoke and he saw no roof.That was well! and he stamped a hoof.His heart knew peace, for none came hereTo this lean feeding save once a yearSomeone to salt the half-wild steer,Or homespun children with clicking pailsWho see so little they tell no tales.He tossed his pipes, too hard to teachA new-world song, far out of reach,For a sylvan sign that the blue jay's screechAnd the whimper of hawks beside the sunWere music enough for him, for one.Times were changed from what they were:Such pipes kept less of power to stirThe fruited bough of the juniperAnd the fragile bluets clustered thereThan the merest aimless breath of air.They were pipes of pagan mirth,And the world had found new terms of worth.He laid him down on the sun-burned earthAnd raveled a flower and looked away —Play? Play? — What should he play?
Channel: Music
Tags:
acoustic
ecology
environment
frost
guitalele
kilpatrick
original
troubador
vocal
Rating: 5.00 (6 ratings)
Views: 296' favoriteCount='1
Comments: 4
Added: Aug 21, 2008
Author: billkilpatrick
Duration: 2:58
"pan with us" - a poem by robert frost set to music (of a sort) by bill kilpatrick:PAN came out of the woods one day —His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,The gray of the moss of walls were they —And stood in the sun and looked his fillAt wooded valley and wooded hill.He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,On a height of naked pasture land;In all the country he did commandHe saw no smoke and he saw no roof.That was well! and he stamped a hoof.His heart knew peace, for none came hereTo this lean feeding save once a yearSomeone to salt the half-wild steer,Or homespun children with clicking pailsWho see so little they tell no tales.He tossed his pipes, too hard to teachA new-world song, far out of reach,For a sylvan sign that the blue jay's screechAnd the whimper of hawks beside the sunWere music enough for him, for one.Times were changed from what they were:Such pipes kept less of power to stirThe fruited bough of the juniperAnd the fragile bluets clustered thereThan the merest aimless breath of air.They were pipes of pagan mirth,And the world had found new terms of worth.He laid him down on the sun-burned earthAnd raveled a flower and looked away —Play? Play? — What should he play?
Channel: Music
Tags: acoustic ecology environment frost guitalele kilpatrick original troubador vocal
Rating: 5.00 (6 ratings) Views: 296' favoriteCount='1 Comments: 4
