Classic Poem

She touched—and lo! each silent silver wire
Won soul and music from her finger-tips,
And trembled like some convent-maiden's lips
Pallid with holy passion and desire.

The evening shadows gathered; and the fire
Staggered and struggled with an unseen death.
Yet there I sat, and hushed, and held my breath,
To catch the palpitations of her lyre.

Wildly and witchingly the notes rang forth,
Charming alive the faces on the wall:
Meseemed I saw the warriors above
Wondering with the lyre what life was worth,
And acquiescing when the chorus call,
All tremulous with triumph, answered, “Love!”