Classic Poem

The string-struck strains, though stained with taint of earth—
Alas! that ever art betrays earth-taint—
Were tinged with tunefulness so utter quaint,
With hazard harmony of such weird worth,
With delicacy of mild-mellow mirth,
Commixed with tender touches of supplaint,
In sudden minor sadness fitful-faint,
They, Orphean-born, won honour to their birth,
And claimed a crowd from out the passers by,
And chose a chord in every crowded soul,
That, softly docile to the spirit-stir
Gave spirit-music; which arose on high
With each who reached his moonward garret goal
And gave a memory to the dulcimer.