Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/331

In this old frame its lid beneath.
It chuckles with a crackling sound
And seems to smile with yellow teeth
At many a well-phrased gallantry
Whispered of old to maidens fair,
Soft words addressed to "ma chérie"
And tender songs of love's despair;

At steps too soft to stir the trance
Filled with the nightingale's unrest,
At every whimsy of romance
Within the moonlit window nest;
At marriage, christening, all the horde
Of dim events, year in, year out.
You ancient mouldering clavichord,
You’ve things enough to dream about.
I stand and fumble at your lid,
Am tempted half to strike a key.
But no, I will not. If I did
I should but break your reverie.
I never would disturb your dream,
The thoughts that in your being thrill,
For as you stand there you may deem
Your breast is full of music still.

And yonder nymph in gown of blue
That foots the mead with scarlet shoon,
She shall not know—'twould never do!—
That all your strings are out of tune.
Dream on, old friend, in sweet repose
Mid cobwebs in your corner gray.
With cautious hand the lid I close.
And very softly steal away.