Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/148

120 Her hand scarce stirs the singing, wiry metal—

Hear from the wild-rose fall each perfect petal!

And can we have, on earth, of heaven the whole,

Or be to heaven upcaught,

Hearing the soul of inexpressible thought,

Roses of sound

That strew melodious leaves upon the silent ground;

And music that is music's very soul,

Without one touch of earth,

Too tender, even, for sorrow, and too bright for mirth!

MODJESKA

THE DRAMA

(SUPPOSED TO BE FROM THE POLISH)

in the crowded theater. The first notes of the orchestra wandered in the air; then the full harmony burst forth; then ceased.