Classic Poem

When the last note is played and void the hall,
I sometimes think that then music begins,
Scattered on chairs lie horns and violins,
The Harp droops silent, standing by the wall;
On the live ear no sounds of music fall,
The organ sleeps, coiled in its branching wood;
But this deep soundlessness is music's food,
This quiet is big with thunder: if I call,
At once a thousand spirits rave and cry;
Those instruments gape, quivering helplessly,
With strangled voices vibrant and wild they lie;
And I can hear in that great solitude
Madness and grief, not the smooth harmony
That presently, subdued, they'll sing to me.