STRANGE, is it not, that I should pass to-day Amid the whirling crowd and softly hear Borne from a stranger's lips in accents clear Thy magic name? — it seemed so like a play — Pausing, I turned, but on his blissful way He lightly fled, as though no human ear By word of his could start with joy or fear — Poor man! he little dreamed what he did say. Then, standing in that moving maze of men, The old, deep wounds began anew to bleed, I felt like him who, grasping for his flute To ease his anguish with old tunes again, Found that his hand but held a rifted reed In which the fond old melody was mute. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VIGNETTES OVERSEAS: 7. ROME by SARA TEASDALE THE BEACON; A MUSICAL DRAMA by JOANNA BAILLIE SONNET TO GEORGE SAND: 1. A RECOGNITION by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING CHRISTMAS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR BEYOND THE POTOMAC by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE THE YOUNG MAY MOON by THOMAS MOORE |