Chopin

Ethereal and pale, pure melody, Was Shelley’s song, while Keats could never sing Without more warmth and depth of coloring: But Chopin soars unshackled, truly free, For music is a higher poetry, Not bound by clumsy words, so it may wing Its way through groves celestial or cling To the warm couch of wine and revelry. I hear the sea wind crooning; far below The cold stars shiver on the ocean floor. What nation is that rising ’gainst the foe In revolution fierce? What antique lore Do those bells toll? Whence comes this overflow Of tones so sweet that we can bear no more? ARTHUR MILLIKEN.