O restless fingers -- not that music make! Bidding old griefs from out the past awake, And pine for memory's sake. Those strings thou callest from quiet to yearn, Of other hearts did hapless secrets learn, And thy strange skill will turn To uses that thy bosom dreams not of: Ay, summon from their dark and dreadful grove The chaunting, pale-cheeked votaries of love. Stay now, and hearken! From that far-away Cymbal on cymbal beats, the fierce horns bray, Stars in their sapphire fade, 'tis break of day. Green are those meads, foam-white the billow's crest, And Night, withdrawing in the cavernous West, Flings back her shadow on the salt sea's breast. Snake-haired, snow-shouldered, pure as flame and dew, Her strange gaze burning slumbrous eyelids through, Rises the Goddess from the waves dark blue. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PHONECALL FROM FRANK O'HARA by ANNE WALDMAN SICILIAN EMIGRANT'S SONG by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS SONNET TO A CLAM by JOHN GODFREY SAXE SOLOMON SCHECHTER by ALTER ABELSON THE SUMMONS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET SHEKLA: A VISION by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE VICTORIAN JOURNALISM by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB ARISTOPHANES' APOLOGY; BEING THE LAST ADVENTURE OF BALAUSTION: PART 2 by ROBERT BROWNING |