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.