Classic Poem

From the black magic of the whirling disc
The dead man's voice arises, as he pours
His heart out in a song of love's delight—

His living voice awakes again, and soars,
Tender with passion, riotous with joy,
Though he lies lapped in everlasting night.

Dead man, you sang—and all the ecstasy
You poured into that moment, at the touch
Of the sharp needle, sheds mortality,
As, from the shades, your living voice takes flight,
Exultant over everlasting night.