O restless fingers -- not that music make! Bidding old griefs from out the past awake, And pine for memory's sake. Those strings thou callest from quiet to yearn, Of other hearts did hapless secrets learn, And thy strange skill will turn To uses that thy bosom dreams not of: Ay, summon from their dark and dreadful grove The chaunting, pale-cheeked votaries of love. Stay now, and hearken! From that far-away Cymbal on cymbal beats, the fierce horns bray, Stars in their sapphire fade, 'tis break of day. Green are those meads, foam-white the billow's crest, And Night, withdrawing in the cavernous West, Flings back her shadow on the salt sea's breast. Snake-haired, snow-shouldered, pure as flame and dew, Her strange gaze burning slumbrous eyelids through, Rises the Goddess from the waves dark blue. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A CUBAN GARDEN by SARA TEASDALE THE LIGHTS OF NEW YORK by SARA TEASDALE HOW WE BURNED THE 'PHILADELPHIA' by BARRETT EASTMAN THE ASSAULT HEROIC by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 72 by PHILIP SIDNEY AUREOLA by NELLIE COOLEY ALDER LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 2. FINLAY by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM |