Classic Poem

The little neighbour led me in, across the class-room, up the stairs,
Into that very room so long the centre of my daring prayers.
For there at the piano saThe who might grant my heart's desire,
That Fate who judged the voices fit to sing in St. Cecilia's choir.

To sing in St. Cecilia's choir — that meant to rise in starched state,
And sing while all the church admired, with dignitaries forced to wait.
That meant rehearsals — lovely things, and late hours sanctioned by one's sire,
And ice-cream festivals whereat would chant the St. Cecilia choir.

And I who knew nor time nor key, nor when to stop, nor when to start, —
The object of a brother's scorn, the anguish of a parent's heart —
I, tuneless, toneless, even I, dared through sheer longing to aspire
To sit among those fifty mates that made the St. Cecilia choir.

And he — that judge who held my fate — I saw him as I see him now:
The rough, white hair, the heavy form, the eyes beneath the generous brow.
I stood as any peasant might before Apollo and his lyre;
He glanced and struck a note, and I — I tried for St. Cecilia's choir.

My face was flame, my feet were ice, my heart one passionate appeal;
I tried so hard to follow him — this Master of my woe or weal;
He struck another note — and frowned; then wheeled about — O, portent dire! —
And looked her through — this imp who dared to dream of St. Cecilia's choir!

Perhaps he only saw a child and not an image of despair,
A child with round, imploring eyes beneath her boyish, close-cropped hair.
He looked — he laughed — he laughed again, and then — I turned from ice to fire —
He nodded, waved his hand, and I — was one with St. Cecilia's choir.

Peace on his soul! — I like to think he guessed that desperate request,
Who let the kindness of his heart subdue the critic in his breast:
Nor do I doubt when angels chant in his abode of song and bliss,
Some little cherub off the key will know that kindly laugh of his.