I BLOW the organ at St. Timothy's. Did you know 't was not the master, after all, (I used to think so, too) that speaks the great Sweet sounds? He only beckons at the keys, And God's winds come and sing for him; while I, I draw the great winds in from up the air. 'T is hard, I tell you! Sometimes they hold back, And make me tug and strain to draw them in. But then they always come: all except once, When I forgot to do my work. You see, 'T was a wild night, and after church was done, The dear old voices had been battling hard, Near drowned in storm and sea, and had got forth Out of the roar and whirl, and on the beach Lay panting, while the waves died into sobs, Leaving them lying, watching the soft foam. -- I fell to dreaming with them, listening How the blue water plashed, quiet and far, Till, of a sudden, a horrible, drawn wail, Then silence, out of which I started, dazed, At a fierce red face and raging whisper, "Blow!" They took my work away, for that; but soon I begged and begged it back again, and now I try to tug so hard as not to hear. Sometimes I creep round nights, when the choir is gone, And stealthily unlock the carved oak doors, To flatten my hand along the ivory keys, As smooth and chill as ice. They will not speak, -- The smooth white lips, yet always I hear tunes, Back in the empty dark, and over me In the gold pipes: it may be my own thoughts, Playing at music. One I always hear That hangs in the dark like a great white flower, and there It grows and fades. For, once, the minister (Him with the great high forehead), Christmas Day, Walked down the alley, and stopped, and spoke to me (Faith! but I shook, though, when his steady hand Stayed on my head a minute), and he said That even the master, and he, and every one -- Even the beautiful people in the choir -- Only did work like mine, moved hands or lips, While the music all was God's, and came from Him. So, ever since, it has come into my tunes, That maybe in that world I can make sounds Like the great, sweet ones, and may have white keys All of my own, and not so cold and dumb, Nights, when I touch them! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS by JOHN KEATS LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE SINGER IN THE PRISON by WALT WHITMAN SPANISH WINGS: A LEAF FROM A LOG BOOK by H. BABCOCK BRUCE: IN PRAISE OF FREEDOM by JOHN BARBOUR |