The old songs Die. Yes, the old songs die. Cold lips that sang them, Cold lips that sang them -- The old songs die, And the lips that sang them Are only a pinch of dust. I saw in Pamplona In a musty museum -- I saw in Pamplona In a buff-colored museum -- I saw in Pamplona A memorial Of the dead violinist; I saw in Pamplona A memorial Of Pablo Sarasate. Dust was inch-deep on the cases, Dust on the stick-pins and satins, Dust on the badges and orders, On the wreath from the oak of Guernica! The old songs Die -- And the lips that sang them. Wreaths, withered and dusty, Cuff-buttons with royal insignia, These, in a musty museum, Are all that is left of Sarasate. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. PURKAPILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE BRIDGE: 7. THE TUNNEL by HAROLD HART CRANE SONNET: 8 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE A RECEIPT TO CURE THE VAPOURS by MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU THE VOICE OF THE SEA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |