When late I heard the trembling cello play, In every face I read sad memories That from dark, secret chambers where they lay Rose, and looked forth from melancholy eyes. So every mournful thought found there a tone To match despondence: sorrow knew its mate; Ill fortune sighed, and mute despair made moan; And one deep chord gave answer, "Late, -- too late." Then ceased the quivering strain, and swift returned Into its depths the secret of each heart; Each face took on its mask, where lately burned A spirit charmed to sight by music's art; But unto one who caught that inner flame No face of all can ever seem the same. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UNDER A TELEPHONE POLE by CARL SANDBURG THE TIDE OF FAITH by MARY ANN EVANS A NYMPH'S PASSION by BEN JONSON EPIGRAM: 45. ON MY FIRST SON by BEN JONSON FIRST FIG by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY COLUMBUS [AUGUST 3, 1492] by JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER VERS LIBRE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS MAXIMS FOR THE OLD HOUSE: THE HEARTH by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |