VIII
A PICTURE
THE slim brown fingers kiss the Viol—strings,
Dark, narrow eyes pierce to the soul within
;
What slow enchanted joy reverie brings
Το him, the lover of the violin;
Sorrow or joy: or saintliness or sin
To him are one, if only he may win
Unto the heart, the hidden heart that sings
What grave old histories, what mysterious things
I
So there he squats to find the hidden flaw
In the dark doorway.
God
! I see him yet
With aweless face that yet reflects the awe
Of something greater than the music’s fret;
On the dark soul within his thoughts are set
;
No hope, no fear, no anguish, no regret,
But only wonder at some secret Law
That holds the sounds; he squats upon the straw.
Under that grave, blue sky no thing he sees:
The swift chameleon market-place ; the white
Stern pillars of the churches
; murmuries
A