 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
166
[II. Music is in the ear of him who hears]
Music is in the ear of him who hears,As beauty in the eyes of him who sees;
I'll wager now, no “music of the spheres,”
No concert grand of nature's harmonies,
No sound of distant harp-notes on the wind,
No organ's loud reverberating swell,
No orchestra, nor voice of Jenny Lind,
Soundeth to Susan Jane one half so well
As that consumptive fiddle, which he keeps
In yonder attic, and sometimes o'nights
Thrums to her window-blind, and sings—“She sleeps,”
With an ear-torturing chorus, that affrights
All within hearing. Falsehood joined to crime!
He knows she's wide awake, and listening all the time!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |