Listening to the Harp

Night and the midway moon. Some hidden lute
Sounds from a silken alcove. As the wind
Swells and recedes the lutany now swells,
Now falters. Now commingled with the clouds
It throbs betwixt the earth and moon. Almost
Like gentle mockery the echoes fall
As laughter breaks on tears. The hand that sways

The crowded chords I see not, but the heart
Made visible by music far away
Spells me her dreams. Ah! mourns she not the tryst
New made and newly broken, but the old
Lost love of long ago. Her melodies
Are secret sorrows welling through the lute—
Are captive nightingales escaped in song.

One touch of the chords, and snow-flakes scatter round
One, and the flowing brightness of the sun
Passes. Perchance she grieves that few may hear
And understand. The floating dust collects
Beneath her silver nail-tips. Lone is she
As orphan phœnix calling, with whose plaint
The songs of all birds fail to harmonise.