Classic Poem

I remember a home by the hillside,
And a little room, curtained, within;
I see through the laces two sisters,
And one holds her dear violin.

She's a sister one could not but covet,
With dark eyes that silently speak;
Her violin, how she does love it!
I envy it there by her cheek.

Of the other, the silver soprano,
I scarce could tell all the sweet truth;
But she looks there, before the piano,
Like a dream of the spirit of youth.

The soft-blending music comes stealing,
And I wonder if those sisters guess
How they're filling my heart up with feeling,
Which I never, with words, can express.

And now into silence 'tis dying —
Aye, it died many long days ago;
Yet the echoes will often come flying
When the soft winds of memory blow.

They tell of a music diviner
Which those who reach heaven shall find,
Which I fully believe will be finer,
Yet I cannot imagine its kind.

So I hope for forgiveness when, sometimes,
I think how that music will seem,
If a voice, violin, and piano
Shall mingle within my dream.