POETRY.
TO MY VIOLIN.
[" In silvis viva shut; canora jam mortua eauo."] SYCAMORE that spread a shade, Where the blackbird, unafraid,
Singing in you, music made.
Pine that murmured of the breeze Where you leaned to summer seas.
Wood, that once was living tree, Let the dumb now speak through thee, Hidden things that know no way Out into the light of day, Captives watching for a ray,
Dreamers by some temple gate
Who for moving waters wait.
Wonder-working wood, let me Touch your strings and set them free. Bound—you open wide the doors, Dumb—a voice they find in yours, Dry—through you the fountain pours, Inarticulate—they talk, Paralysed—they rise and walk. Wood of magic, haunted tree, Thus you lay your spells on me.
Till, within a charmed ring Half-created things shall spring Into being while you sing, Crowding in a countless throng, 'Crying with a new-found tongue.
Wood of Orpheus, wood of Pan, Loud you sing the soul of man.
MARNA PEASE.
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