Classic Poem

… “A mystery of music on the keys—
A ghost of doubts and dreams and silences. . . .

“Over these keys, dim in the deeper darkness,
Slowly, hopelessly, silently wander my fingers,
Impotent now to awake an echo of you.
Chanting slowly, chanting with far-off voices,
Rises the host of implacable memories.
Into the darkness dies the unborn music;
And I remember the poignant you alone.

“This, strange and dear one,
This hour of memory is the only song
That I can ever make
For your pale coronal.
I would not do you the deep wrong
Of striving now to wake
Where grey rains fall
A measured artful voluntary of praise
Whose strains should die on the bewildered ears
Of those who thought you base
Or of a trivial worth.
For my own solace, thus I bring our days,
Our vain days, from their shroud of smiles and tears,
Back for a little while to light the uncomprehending earth.

“Sidonian lute!
Still tremulous with music. . . .
Sidonian lute!” …