Poems (Sill)/To a Face at a Concert
HEN the low music makes a dusk of sound About 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?
TO A FACE AT A CONCERT.
HEN the low music makes a dusk of sound About 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?