The harp of the minstrel has never a tone <br />As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, <br />For the magical touch of his fingers alone <br />Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright; <br />But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart <br />A sorrow to one in an alien clime, <br />Let the light of the melody fall on the heart, <br />And cadence his grief into musical rhyme. <br /> <br />The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim <br />That once were his passionate love and his pride; <br />And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him <br />Have fallen away as the flowers have died. <br />The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath <br />And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago, <br />Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath <br />The grass and the stubble--the frost and the snow. <br /> <br />Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings <br />Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear, <br />And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings, <br />And jewel the song with the gem of a tear. <br />For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone <br />As sad as the song in his bosom tonight, <br />And the magical touch of his fingers alone <br />Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-harp-of-the-minstrel/
