Page:Hand in hand; (IA handinhand00kipl).pdf/55



HARP Eolian Is on my window-sill, A box of pulsing melodies, A wood-and-wire thrill.

Its songs are not its own— There is no music there; But it can phrase in tender tone The symphonies of air.

So many poets dead! Is all their power past? Think of the songs that might have been Had not death come too fast!

Why is my hand less skilled Than wood and wire be? Cannot one floating song be willed To breathe its tune to me?

Dear bygone poets, then, Here's paper spread and white; I dip for you a silver pen— Come, guide my hand, and write!