Between these lines I place my pencilled notes.

A bead, a stem, a sweetly singing sound—

These melodies I thread from varied thoughts around;

Each tone a song from violins’ stringèd throats,

And harmony conceived by mists and winding roads

Where twines these themes from sea to sky to ground—

If music is what I have strangely found

Then let the music ride the air as floats.

In sound I leave my stylised sighs in place,

A coloured poem writ in troubled days.

The cello cries, intensely passionate.

I let my soul become a choir, and sing

With it so that my notes are placed by fate;

—Ah! it is done; and let the carillon ring.


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