Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/125

Rh From mine own palm.&quot; The stranger deftly poised The brimming pitcher on his head, and turned Back to the reaping-folk, while Tannhauser Looked after him across the sunny fields, Clasping each hand about his waist to bear The balanced pitcher; then, down glancing, found The lad’s guitar near by, and fell at once To striking its tuned strings with wandering hands, And pensive eyes filled full of tender dreams. &quot;Yea, holy sir, it is a worthless thing, And yet I love it, for I make it speak.&quot; The boy again stood by him, and dispelled His train of fantasies half sweet, half sad. &quot;That was not in my thought,&quot; the knight replied. &quot;Its worth is more than rubies ; whoso hath The art to make this speak is raised thereby Above all loneliness or grief or fear.&quot; More to himself than to the lad he spake, Who, understanding not, stood doubtfully At loss for answer ; but the knight went on: &quot;How came it in your hands, and who hath tuned Your voice to follow it.&quot; &quot; I am unskilled, Good father, but my mother smote its strings To music rare.&quot; Diverted from one theme, Pleased with the winsome candor of the boy,