The Broken Lute.
147
Full was the air of melody,
Of harmony, of sound
From wood, from leaf, from running stream,
But from the lute,—the ground
Of harmony, of sound
From wood, from leaf, from running stream,
But from the lute,—the ground
There came no voice to answer me,
I looked—alas! to find
A snake coiled up—like the lute I flung
This thought to the passing wind.
I looked—alas! to find
A snake coiled up—like the lute I flung
This thought to the passing wind.
Lucca, 1859.
