Poetry
Violins
I nAvv. loved violins, and I have thought as I heard them that they were birds crying at the other side of a wood, birds in the light beyond the dark wood, and none has soar them.
I thought that they were birds crying, but I had not made stood.
They were a shadow, but not of song beyond the war they were an echo, but not of invisible light. They were love's first banners, tremblingly unfurled by standard-bearers marching alone in the night.
They were the avant-posts, lifting their gold-pennoned Ian they were the harness ringing of beauty's vedettes, and they reined their horses at the dawn where romance where the heart remembers but the fiddle forgets.
For the fiddle soars up, and is lost in its own silver cascade that tumbles in rain out of the glory that it could not have known back to the dark earth that it spurned in vain.
Violin, Viola, viol d'amore sing and are silent, but I who guessed them to be birds crying in some star-haunted story of magic beyond the world, yet I have blessed them.
For they have-become the voice of my own heart speaking,
they have become that voice, and one voice dearer. And they do not fall back to the earth, and there is no waki but they shine and rise like a star, and the star draws nearer HUMBERT WOLM
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