Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/330



Up in the attic's dusty gloom, Where spiders weave their slender nets, Where faded chairs and sofas loom,— A hidden realm of fond regrets— Entranced amid the memories That Gustaf's palmy days afford With cracked and yellow ivory keys There stands an ancient clavichord.

Though slack the strings and dull with rust, One yet may see where partly hid Under the drifted film of dust A nymph is dancing on the lid In stiff brocade with hair a-curl And scarlet shoes, the while her swain Tinkles his lute inlaid with pearl, And white lambs feed around the twain. It stands there deep in reverie Of dance and song in times long gone, Of many a lilting melody That rippled through the silk salon, Of witty folk in full array Who clinked their glasses, talked and bowed, Of minuets demurely gay, And laughter free but never loud. Ah, that was in another age Of music such that great men came: Full many a titled personage And many an artist known to fame. High heels rang on the polished floor At masquerade and festive rout, Mozart was played then, Bach and Spohr, And poets read their verse, no doubt. But other memories too, abound