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My soul went up the blue — the sweetest pain,
strong With beauty, shaken by magic of that song.
Before the listening world behold him stand; The warm air trembles with his passionate
play; Their cheers shower round him like the
ocean spray Round one who waits upon the stormy strand. Their smiles, sighs, tears, all are at his com
mand; And now they hear the trump of judgment
day, And now one silver note to heaven doth
stray And fluttering fall upon the golden sand.
But like the murmur of the distant sea
weak Sounds his own music to him, wild and
free Far from the soul of music that doth speak
In wordless wail and lyric ecstasy From that good viol pressed against his cheek.
Richard Watson Gilder.
The lark above our heads doth know
Ah! soaring soul! faint not nor tire!
Francis William Bourdillon.
SCHUMANN'S SONATA IN A MINOR
(Mit Leidenschaftlichem Ausdruck)
The quiet room, the flowers, the perfumed
calm, The slender crystal vase, where all aflame The scarlet poppies stand erect and tall,
Color that burns as if no frost could tame, The shaded lamplight glowing over all, The summer night a dream of warmth and
Out breaks at once the golden melody, “With passionate expression !” Ah, from
whence Comes the enchantment of this potent spell, This charm that takes us captive, soul and
sense? The sacred power of music, who shall tell,
Who find the secret of its mastery?
Lo, in the keen vibration of the air
Pierced by the sweetness of the violin, Shaken by thrilling chords and searching That flood the ivory keys, the flowers begin To tremble; 'tis as if some spirit floats
And breathes upon their beauty unaware.
The stately poppies, proud in stillness, stand
In silken splendor of superb attire: Stricken with arrows of melodious sound,
Their loosened petals fall like flakes of fire; With
of music overwhelmed and drowned, Solemnly drop their flames on either hand,
So the rich moment dies, and what is left?
Only a memory sweet, to shut between Some poem's silent leaves, to find again, Perhaps, when winter blasts are howling
keen, And summer's loveliness is spoiled and slain,
And all the world of light and bloom bereft.
But winter cannot rob the music so!
Nor time nor fate its subtle power destroy To bring again the summer's dear caress, To wake the heart to youth's unreasoning
Sound, color, perfume, love, to warm and
bless, And airs of balm from Paradise that blow.
THE ÆOLIAN HARP
And that simplest lute Placed lengthways in the clasping casement,
hark! How by the desultory breeze caressed, Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its
strings Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes Over delicious surges sink and rise; Such a soft floating witchery of sound As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-land, Where Melodies round honey-dropping flow
ers, Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed
wing! O the one life within us and abroad,