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