Book 10 — THE 'CELLO
Reading edition
SAMUEL ABBOTT '87
The mellow light steals o'er its silent strings, That catch the sound of some far sylvan strain; Such fantasie as thrills the poet's brain, Or Morpheus, floating 'neath the pale stars, brings.
And list! Divinely, on its own sad wings, It sings a wondrous pitiful refrain, Methinks some soul with aching grief is lain— That moans and dies with broken murmurings.
The voice is hushed, the lights are low and spent; The dancers bid farewell, with tired feet. Too few, I ween, this thing of wood has meant A tenth part what its harmony, so sweet, Has told to me. 'Mid joy, the sorrows greet The wanderer, their hearts by weeping rent.
Fortnight, 1887.