92
To a Piccolo.
You may hear, when, with sharp silver shuttles of light,
The moonbeams are weaving a web in the night
To tangle the tresses of mermaidens sleeping,
A sudden, soft voice through the warm silence sweeping
In pure, liquid cadence, unfettered by words,
'Tis a piccolo singing,
Across the night Hinging
A musical mingling of waters and birds.
The moonbeams are weaving a web in the night
To tangle the tresses of mermaidens sleeping,
A sudden, soft voice through the warm silence sweeping
In pure, liquid cadence, unfettered by words,
'Tis a piccolo singing,
Across the night Hinging
A musical mingling of waters and birds.
When the violin sings, there come, freighted with lire,
Strange voices that waken our highest desire,
We dream like a prophet; we open the portals
That hide the sublime from the vision of mortals,
We are burnt with its beauty; eternity rolls
Before us, and haunts us,
And beckons and taunts us,
And wakes a divine discontent in our souls.
Strange voices that waken our highest desire,
We dream like a prophet; we open the portals
That hide the sublime from the vision of mortals,
We are burnt with its beauty; eternity rolls
Before us, and haunts us,
And beckons and taunts us,
And wakes a divine discontent in our souls.
And the harp, with its love-laden, vibrating tone,
Hath meanings as powerful and deep of its own.
We love, and are filled by the glory and splendour
Of soft-smitten strings inexpressibly tender,
Hath meanings as powerful and deep of its own.
We love, and are filled by the glory and splendour
Of soft-smitten strings inexpressibly tender,
