And wished her thither, till she, answering, rose, Loth to leave these her friends, yet fain for those, More distant but more dear, whose lips were placed Warm on the Bridegroom's, passionately chaste. I know not; this I know: mine ear shall keep Those great soprano sounds until I sleep; And this I know: her brow, her hair, her eye, Shall be to me a glory till I die! Frederic Lawrence Knowles. TO JANE The keen stars were twinkling, And the fair moon was rising among them, Dear Jane. The guitar was tinkling, But the notes were not sweet till you sung them Again. As the moon's soft splendor O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven Is thrown, So your voice most tender To the strings without soul had then given Its own. The stars will awaken, Though the moon sleep a full hour later No leaf will be shaken Whilst the dews of your melody scatter Though the sound overpowers, Of some world far from ours, Are one. Percy Bysshe Shelley. THE MUSIC - HALL The curtain on the grouping dancers falls, The heaven of color has vanished from our eyes; Stirred in our seats we wait with vague sur mise What haply comes that pleases or that palls. Touched on the stand the thrice-struck baton calls, Once more I watch the unfolding curtain rise, I hear the exultant violins premise The well-known tune that thrills me and enthralls. Then trembling in my joy I see you flash Before the footlights to the cymbals' clash, With laughing lips, swift feet, and brilliant glance, You, fair as heaven and as a rainbow bright, You, queen of song and empress of the dance, Flower of mine eyes, my love, my heart's delight! Theodore Wratislaw. A PRELUDE You shall play me, and you please, From the masters, music-blessed, Playing what I love the best. Something sweet of Schumann's make, Something sad for Chopin's sake; Then a waltz with gayer graces Next, to sway my dreaming soul, Now a fugue of Bach's, a song A sonata-strain whose grief From the soul of Rubinstein. Playing thus, the warp of life, Richard Burton. THE KEYBOARD Five and thirty black slaves, For their Queen's delight, When she quits her palace Dumb the throats of thunder. Dusky slaves and pallid, Ebon slaves and white, When the Queen was on her throne How you sang to-night! Ah, the throats of thunder! Ah, the dulcet lips! |