YOUR violin! Ah me! 'Twas fashioned o'er the sea, In storied Italy -- What matter where? It is its voice that sways And thrills me as it plays The airs of other days -- The days that were! Then let your magic bow Glide lightly to and fro. -- I close my eyes, and so, In vast content, I kiss my hand to you, And to the tunes we knew Of old, as well as to Your instrument! Poured out of some dim dream Of lulling sounds that seem Like ripples of a stream Twanged lightly by The slender, tender hands Of weeping-willow wands That droop where gleaming sands And pebbles lie. A melody that swoons In all the truant tunes Long listless afternoons Lure from the breeze, When woodland boughs are stirred, And moaning doves are heard, And laughter afterward Beneath the trees. Through all the chorusing, I hear on leaves of spring The drip and pattering Of April skies, With echoes faint and sweet As baby-angel feet Might wake along a street Of Paradise. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A TERRIBLE INFANT by FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON THE THREAD OF LIFE by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE CHILD ALONE: 1. THE UNSEEN PLAYMATE by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON EUTERPE by LUCIUS MORRIS BEEBE BOOKS FOR THE PEOPLE by ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH BOTTA |