Classic Poem

Notes on the tuned frame of strings
Plucked or silenced under the hand
Whimper lightly to the ear,
Delicate and involute,
Like the mockery in a shell.
Lest the brain forget the thunder
The roused heart once made it hear,—
Rising as that clamor fell,—
Let there sound from music's root
One note rage can understand.
A line noise of riven things,
Build there some thick chord of wonder;
Then, for every passion's sake,
Beat upon it till it break.