Put By The Flute Poem by Gertrude Bartlett

O LOVE, put by the flute.
Too slight the tender, liquid strain
We heard amid the April rain
Of wild white blooms, to voice the spell
Whereof our lips are mute.
Let organ diapasons tell
The music of the waves which roll
From that unfathomed Sea, the Soul.
So, Love, put by the flute.

The flute, O Love, put by;
For we unto the wonder-strand
Are come, from out the valley land
Upon the Great Adventure bound.
Here river reed notes die
Within the larger pulse of sound.
Lest list'ning for the luring call
We lose the greater rhythm's fall,
The flute, dear Love, put by.

Put by the flute, O Love.
And yet, so piercing keen the tone
Once heard in yon far vale, wind-blown
Down that bright stream, whose brim we twain
With laughter leaned above,
The joy thereof do we retain
Among our mighty chords, that so
How sweet is youth all men may know–
Put by the flute, O Love.