 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
VARIATIONS ON AN ARIA
HARVARD MUSICAL ASSOCIATION
JANUARY 18, 1858
One molten cluster let me claim
Of grapes that wore the purple stain,—
No maddening draught of scorching flame
But leaf and blossom-filtered rain,
Sweet with the musky earth's perfume,
Red with the burning glow of dawn,
Still flower-like in its breath and bloom,—
The soul of summers dead and gone!
Of grapes that wore the purple stain,—
No maddening draught of scorching flame
But leaf and blossom-filtered rain,
Sweet with the musky earth's perfume,
Red with the burning glow of dawn,
Still flower-like in its breath and bloom,—
The soul of summers dead and gone!
Ah, not alone their sunsets lie
Dissolved in this empurpled glow,
But sounds and shapes that will not die
Run with its current's crimson flow!
The music of the silent tongue,—
The flying hands that swept the keys,—
The broken lute, the harp unstrung,—
We listen and we look for these.
Dissolved in this empurpled glow,
But sounds and shapes that will not die
Run with its current's crimson flow!
The music of the silent tongue,—
The flying hands that swept the keys,—
The broken lute, the harp unstrung,—
We listen and we look for these.
Hark! while the dimpling fount is stirred,
The far off echoes move their wings,
And through the quivering past is heard
The murmur of its myriad strings.
Once more that old remembered strain!
The Prima Donna's locust-cry!
And hush for memory breathes again
Some lost “Pierian” melody!
The far off echoes move their wings,
And through the quivering past is heard
The murmur of its myriad strings.
Once more that old remembered strain!
The Prima Donna's locust-cry!
And hush for memory breathes again
Some lost “Pierian” melody!
And so we will not call him thief
Nor hold him guilty of a sin
Who plucks away one ivy-leaf
Or smoothes the panther's spotted skin;
For if we steal the brightest wine
We do the thyrsus little wrong,
Since all the jewels of the vine
Were thrown her by the God of Song!
Nor hold him guilty of a sin
Who plucks away one ivy-leaf
Or smoothes the panther's spotted skin;
For if we steal the brightest wine
We do the thyrsus little wrong,
Since all the jewels of the vine
Were thrown her by the God of Song!
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |