Classic Poem

Your violin! Ah me!
'Twas fashioned o'er the sea,
In storied Italy —
What matter where?
It is its voice that sways
And thrills me as it plays
The airs of other days —
The days that were!

Then let your magic bow
Glide lightly to and fro. —
I close my eyes, and so,
In vast content,
I kiss my hand to you,
And to the tunes we knew
Of old, as well as to
Your instrument!

Poured out of some dim dream
Of lulling sounds that seem
Like ripples of a stream
Twanged lightly by
The slender, tender hands
Of weeping-willow wands
That droop where gleaming sands
And pebbles lie.

A melody that swoons
In all the truant tunes
Long listless afternoons
Lure from the breeze,
When woodland boughs are stirred,
And moaning doves are heard,
And laughter afterward
Beneath the trees.

Through all the chorusing,
I hear on leaves of spring
The drip and pattering
Of April skies,
With echoes faint and sweet
As baby-angel feet
Might wake along a street