Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/225

Music

Die. Yes, the old songs die. Cold lips that sang them, Cold lips that sang them— The old songs die, And the lips that sang them Are only a pinch of dust.


 * I saw in Pamplona

In a musty museum— I saw in Pamplona In a buff-colored museum— I saw in Pamplona A memorial Of the dead violinist; I saw in Pamplona A memorial Of Pablo Sarasate.


 * Dust was inch-deep on the cases,

Dust on the stick-pins and satins, Dust on the badges and orders, On the wreath from the oak of Guernica!