WHEN last I heard the trembling 'cello play, <br />In every face I saw sad memories <br />That from dark, secret chambers where they lay <br />Rose and looked forth from melancholy eyes. <br />So every mournful thought found there a tone <br />To match despondence; sorrow knew its mate; <br />Ill fortune sighed, and mute despair made moan; <br />And one deep chord gave answer, 'Late, —too late!' <br />Then ceased the quivering strain, and swift returned <br />Unto its depths the secret of each heart; <br />Each face took on its mask, where lately burned, <br />A spirit charmed to sight by music's art; <br />But unto one who caught that inner flame <br />No face of all can ever seem the same.<br /><br />Richard Watson Gilder<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cello-2/
