The Equinox (Volume I, Number VIII)

VIII A PICTURE THE slim brown fingers kiss the Viol—strings, Dark, narrow eyes pierce to the soul within ; What slow enchanted joy reverie brings Το him, the lover of the violin; Sorrow or joy: or saintliness or sin To him are one, if only he may win Unto the heart, the hidden heart that sings What grave old histories, what mysterious things I So there he squats to find the hidden flaw In the dark doorway. God ! I see him yet With aweless face that yet reflects the awe Of something greater than the music’s fret; On the dark soul within his thoughts are set ; No hope, no fear, no anguish, no regret, But only wonder at some secret Law That holds the sounds; he squats upon the straw. Under that grave, blue sky no thing he sees: The swift chameleon market-place ; the white Stern pillars of the churches ; murmuries A