My friend went to the piano; spun the stool <br />A little higher; left his pipe to cool; <br />Picked up a fat green volume from the chest; <br />And propped it open. <br />Whitely without rest, <br />His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords, <br />. . . And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes, <br />Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare, <br />An army stormed the bastions of the air! <br />Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch, <br />Marching together as the lightnings march, <br />And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars <br />Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars <br />Above the screaming horns. In state they passed, <br />Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast -- <br />Rending the darkness like a leaping knife, <br />The flame, the noble pageant of our life! <br />The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture <br />To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure; <br />Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns, <br />And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs; <br />That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain, <br />From the loose net of words to deeds again <br />And to all courage! Perilous and sharp <br />The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp! <br />. . . And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men, <br />"How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.<br /><br />Stephen Vincent Benet<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/music-8/
