The oriole gives his matins o'er, No song-bird now hath any skill; Even that reproachful whippoorwill That stirred such memories in my heart Is hushed, yet comes, a listener still, Nightly, to hear Cordelia's art. O virgins of the silver lute! And thou great master of the flute, Thomas W. Parsons. ON MUSIC Many love music but for music's sake; Thoughts that repose within the breast half dead, And rise to follow where she loves to lead. What various feelings come from days gone by! What tears from far-off sources dim the eye! DISSONANCES Oft in the midst of music rare Seeming dissonances creep Into the chords once tender, deep. But, as the deft musician plays Back to harmonies that are meet, So, from the strings of the harp of life But when the air is played, you see Richard Burton. ON MUSIC I cannot tell how high my soul takes wing, Nor to what depths in liquid sweets it sinks Yet well I know it suffers from thy sting, As blossoms ambrosial Shook from some full-blown orange-tree in spring, Sink wav'ring to the ground And bound Unto the zephyr's piping, in dizzy, dizzy ring! William Stanley Braithwaite. SONNET CXXVIII. How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds |