Page:Flint and Feather (1914).djvu/189



by the thread of music woven through

This fragile web of cadences I spin,

That I have only caught these songs since you

Voiced them upon your haunting violin.

October's orchestra plays softly on

The northern forest with its thousand strings.

And Autumn, the conductor wields anon

The Golden-rod—The baton that he swings.

There is a lonely minor chord that sings

Faintly and far along the forest ways,

When the firs finger faintly on the strings

Of that rare violin the night wind plays,

Just as it whispered once to you and me

Beneath the English pines beyond the sea.

The lost wind wandering, forever grieves

Low overhead,

Above grey mosses whispering of leaves

Fallen and dead.