That note you hold, narrowing and rising, shakes <br />Like New Orleans reflected on the water, <br />And in all ears appropriate falsehood wakes, <br /> <br />Building for some a legendary Quarter <br />Of balconies, flower-baskets and quadrilles, <br />Everyone making love and going shares-- <br /> <br />Oh, play that thing! Mute glorious Storyvilles <br />Others may license, grouping around their chairs <br />Sporting-house girls like circus tigers (priced <br /> <br />Far above rubies) to pretend their fads, <br />While scholars manqués nod around unnoticed <br />Wrapped up in personnels like old plaids. <br /> <br />On me your voice falls as they say love should, <br />Like an enormous yes. My Crescent City <br />Is where your speech alone is understood, <br /> <br />And greeted as the natural noise of good, <br />Scattering long-haired grief and scored pity.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-sidney-bechet/
