Haunting Fingers

“Are you awake,
&nbsp       &nbsp Comrades, this silent night?
&nbsp Well ’twere if all of our glossy gluey make
Lay in the damp without, and fell to fragments quite!”

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “O viol, my friend,
&nbsp       &nbsp I watch, though Phosphor nears,
&nbsp And I fain would drowse away to its utter end
This dumb dark stowage after our loud melodious years!”

And they felt past handlers clutch them,
&nbsp Though none was in the room,
Old players’ dead fingers touch them,
&nbsp       &nbsp Shrunk in the tomb.

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “‘Cello, good mate,
&nbsp       &nbsp You speak my mind as yours:
&nbsp Doomed to this voiceless, crippled, corpselike state,
Who, dear to famed Amphion, trapped here, long endures?”

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “Once I could thrill
&nbsp       &nbsp The populace through and through,
&nbsp Wake them to passioned pulsings past their will.” . . .
(A contra-basso spake so, and the rest sighed anew.)

And they felt old muscles travel
&nbsp Over their tense contours,
And with long skill unravel
&nbsp       &nbsp Cunningest scores.

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “The tender pat
&nbsp       &nbsp Of her aery finger-tips
&nbsp Upon me daily - I rejoiced thereat!”
(Thuswise a harpsicord, as from dampered lips.)

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “My keys’ white shine,
&nbsp       &nbsp Now sallow, met a hand
&nbsp Even whiter. . . . Tones of hers fell forth with mine
In sowings of sound so sweet no lover could withstand!”

And its clavier was filmed with fingers
&nbsp Like tapering flames - wan, cold -
Or the nebulous light that lingers
&nbsp       &nbsp In charnel mould.

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “Gayer than most
&nbsp       &nbsp Was I,” reverbed a drum;
&nbsp “The regiments, marchings, throngs, hurrahs! What a host
I stirred - even when crape mufflings gagged me well-nigh dumb!”

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp Trilled an aged viol:
&nbsp       &nbsp “Much tune have I set free
&nbsp To spur the dance, since my first timid trial
Where I had birth - far hence, in sun-swept Italy!”

And he feels apt touches on him
&nbsp From those that pressed him then;
Who seem with their glance to con him,
&nbsp       &nbsp Saying, “Not again!”

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “A holy calm,”
&nbsp       &nbsp Mourned a shawm’s voice subdued,
&nbsp “Steeped my Cecilian rhythms when hymn and psalm
Poured from devout souls met in Sabbath sanctitude.”

&nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “I faced the sock
&nbsp       &nbsp Nightly,” twanged a sick lyre,
&nbsp “Over ranked lights! O charm of life in mock,
O scenes that fed love, hope, wit, rapture, mirth, desire!”

Thus they, till each past player
&nbsp Stroked thinner and more thin,
And the morning sky grew grayer
&nbsp       &nbsp And day crawled in.