 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
246
TO A FACE AT A CONCERT
When the low music makes a dusk of soundAbout us, and the viol or far-off horn
Swells out above it like a wind forlorn,
That wanders seeking something never found,
What phantom in your brain, on what dim ground,
Traces its shadowy lines? What vision, born
Of unfulfillment, fades in mere self-scorn,
Or grows, from that still twilight stealing round?
When the lids droop and the hands lie unstrung,
Dare one divine your dream, while the chords weave
Their cloudy woof from key to key, and die,—
Is it one fate that, since the world was young,
Has followed man, and makes him half believe
The voice of instruments a human cry?
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |