by Patience Worth
Today I heard a harp mourn
Beneath the hand of one who stroked.
Strange, but the echo laughed!
How might I know then
Whether the harp mourned or joyed?
Today I heard a lute
With its sorrow-dripping notes,
Tearing at the garment of my sorrow.
Today I harked unto a thousand musics,
Each a part of that great mass
The earth whirs etherward.
Is this song which rests up the harp
But an echo from afar, fallen down
And rested there?
What is a song? An echo lodged?
Some old, old love left burning,
Which has found a tabernacle?
Some limpid sorrow wailing, found utterance
Anew twixt the parted lips of a troubadour?
Oh, this is fitting!-There is no new, new song!
Today but catcheth the echoes of yesterday,
And plays in childish wonderment
With their cadence.
Last updated January 14, 2019