Poems (Eckley)/The Broken Lute
HE leaves sang on in sweet accord, Strung lightly to the breeze,Playing their idle fantasies In the old chesnut trees.
THE BROKEN LUTE."Non è tutto oro, quelle che luce."
HE leaves sang on in sweet accord, Strung lightly to the breeze,Playing their idle fantasies In the old chesnut trees.Near the jessamine that hid me, Lay a broken lute,Half buried among the daisies— Stringless, shattered, mute.
Soft the river rippled by me, Purling among the weedsHer prelude to the evening breeze, That play'd in the choral reeds.
Full was the air of melody, Of harmony, of soundFrom wood, from leaf, from running stream, But from the lute,—the ground
There came no voice to answer me, I looked—alas! to findA snake coiled up—like the lute I flung This thought to the passing wind.
Lucca, 1859.