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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
“TO-NIGHT THE MUSIC DOTH A BURDEN BEAR”
To-night the music doth a burden bear—One word that moans and murmurs; doth exhale
Tremulously as perfume on the air
From out a rose blood-red, or lily pale.
The burden is thy name, dear soul of me,
Which the rapt melodist unknowing all
Still doth repeat through fugue and reverie;
Thy name, to him unknown, to me doth call,
And weeps my heart at every music-fall.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |