WHEN a man's prime passion, for years on years, Is giving birth to bright waltz airs, That are quick with life and love that cheers, And fresh as the bloom that the springtime wears; 'Tis a fancy sad and strange withal, To dream he must lie in the grave some day And hear no longer the soft clear call Of music, once that he heard alway. Would he seize all melodies Nature knows, To fit the passion that haunts him still, Till out of them all a wild strain grows Graced and fashioned to suit his will, And up from the Earth our pulses stir? -- Fancy him there in the chilly vaults, Singing still in his sepulcher, Subtly shaping his witching waltz! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MICHAELMASSE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT PSALM 38. DOMINE NE IN FURORE by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE PSALM 40. EXPECTANS EXPECTAVI by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE OLIVER'S ADVICE by WILLIAM BLACKER CARTOONS OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION by STIRLING BOWEN THE CLOUD ON THE WAY by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE STONECUTTER by VALERY YAKOVLEVICH BRYUSOV PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY: INTRODUCTORY by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY |