Classic Poem

His hand the master swept along
The mighty organ's ivory keys,
Waking old memories of song
And elfin symphonies.

And as he played, a little lute
That lay unhonored at his feet,
Hearing such strains, could not be mute,
But thrilled with echoes sweet.

And so, my well-beloved lyre!
If in these dreamy moods of mine
I strike thee not with godlike ire
And ecstasy divine,

I'll lay thee down: perchance some time
Unwooed of me, thy tuneful strings
May tell of melodies sublime
In truest murmurings!