A CONCERT OF GIORGIONE
(Angelico shrank from Masaccio. . . . . .)
I know there is a music gathering somewhere
Unmindful of the house where it is made,
And potent to feel more than men can say
In a minuter mode of sounds allied,
Without another art's cold explanation.
Ah, but the voice is still an instrument
And must go with the rest to shape perfection.
All meaning changes with the harmony.
I saw her shadow on the curtain
Assailed by a breath of rain-wet roses;
And near her hair, but half as certain,
A shadow of tremulous love-in-a-mist
Seemed to leave her arm's slow poses
In a finger twist. . . . . . . .
Listen, O, listen, listen
As if you were music listening to itself.
Even when I cease perfect voices remain.