The Cello

When late I heard the trembling cello play, In every face I read sad memories That from dark, secret chambers where they lay Rose, and looked forth from melancholy eyes. So every mournful thought found there a tone To match despondence: sorrow knew its mate; Ill fortune sighed, and mute despair made moan; And one deep chord gave answer, “Late,—too late.” Then ceased the quivering strain, and swift returned Into its depths the secret of each heart; Each face took on its mask, where lately burned A spirit charmed to sight by music’s art; But unto one who caught that inner flame No face of all can ever seem the same.

Collection: 
English
Richard Watson Gilder
Sub Title: 
Poems of Sentiment: V. The Arts

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