Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/331

 In this old frame its lid beneath. It chuckles with a crackling sound And seems to smile with yellow teeth At many a well-phrased gallantry Whispered of old to maidens fair, Soft words addressed to "ma chérie" And tender songs of love's despair;

At steps too soft to stir the trance Filled with the nightingale's unrest, At every whimsy of romance Within the moonlit window nest; At marriage, christening, all the horde Of dim events, year in, year out. You ancient mouldering clavichord, You’ve things enough to dream about. I stand and fumble at your lid, Am tempted half to strike a key. But no, I will not. If I did I should but break your reverie. I never would disturb your dream, The thoughts that in your being thrill, For as you stand there you may deem Your breast is full of music still.

And yonder nymph in gown of blue That foots the mead with scarlet shoon, She shall not know—'twould never do!— That all your strings are out of tune. Dream on, old friend, in sweet repose Mid cobwebs in your corner gray. With cautious hand the lid I close. And very softly steal away.