Classic Poem

(To Eduard Strauss)

When a man's prime passion, for years on years,
Is giving birth to bright waltz airs,
That are quick with life and love that cheers,
And fresh as the bloom that the springtime wears;

'Tis a fancy sad and strange withal,
To dream he must lie in the grave some day
And hear no longer the soft clear call
Of music, once that he heard alway.

Would he seize all melodies Nature knows,
To fit the passion that haunts him still,
Till out of them all a wild strain grows
Graced and fashioned to suit his will,

And up from the Earth our pulses stir? —
Fancy him there in the chilly vaults,
Singing still in his sepulcher,
Subtly shaping his witching waltz!