Classic Poem

315

He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on—
He stuns you by degrees—
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Ethereal Blow
By fainter Hammers—further heard—
Then nearer—Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten—
Your Brain—to bubble Cool—
Deals—One—imperial&mda sh;Thunderbolt—
That scalps your naked Soul—

When Winds take Forests in the Paws—
The Universe—is still—