STRANGE, is it not, that I should pass to-day Amid the whirling crowd and softly hear Borne from a stranger's lips in accents clear Thy magic name? — it seemed so like a play — Pausing, I turned, but on his blissful way He lightly fled, as though no human ear By word of his could start with joy or fear — Poor man! he little dreamed what he did say. Then, standing in that moving maze of men, The old, deep wounds began anew to bleed, I felt like him who, grasping for his flute To ease his anguish with old tunes again, Found that his hand but held a rifted reed In which the fond old melody was mute. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SHANNON AND THE CHESAPEAKE [JUNE 1, 1813] by THOMAS TRACY BOUVE AT CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR LAY OF THE TRILOBITE by MAY EMMA GOLDWORTH KENDALL LINES; SUGGESTED BY GRAVES TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL SHIRK OR WORK? by GRACE BORDELON AGATE THE REGULAR STORY by BERTON BRALEY A LETTER, ON HIS DEPARTURE FORM LONDON; TO R.L., ESQ. by JOHN BYROM |