Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 61

​
LXI TO A PIANO
O casket of sweet sounds, wherein there lieth A sound to lull the weary man to sleep, A sound to make the hard and tearless weep,A sound that every sound on earth defieth,And only to one hand on earth replieth, What time her fingers varied measure keep, To drag it wooingly from out the deepThat, softly wooed by others, only sigheth!If I might win me that remembered strain By reverent lifting of thy gleamy lid,I could forget the sorrowful refrain Of all the world shall do—is doing—did.Pandora's prisoned hope was not more vain. The casket's there, the melody is hid.
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.