For him who struck thy foreign string, <br /> I ween this heart has ceased to care; <br />Then why dost thou such feelings bring <br /> To my sad spirit—old Guitar? <br /> <br />It is as if the warm sunlight <br /> In some deep glen should lingering stay, <br />When clouds of storm, or shades of night, <br /> Have wrapt the parent orb away. <br /> <br />It is as if the glassy brook <br /> Should image still its willows fair, <br />Though years ago the woodman's stroke <br /> Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair. <br /> <br />Even so, Guitar, thy magic tone <br /> Hath moved the tear and waked the sigh; <br />Hath bid the ancient torrent moan, <br /> Although its very source is dry.<br /><br />Emily Jane Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lady-to-her-guitar/
