Chopin
Ethereal and pale, pure melody,Was Shelley’s song, while Keats could never singWithout more warmth and depth of coloring:But Chopin soars unshackled, truly free,For music is a higher poetry,Not bound by clumsy words, so it may wingIts way through groves celestial or clingTo the warm couch of wine and revelry.I hear the sea wind crooning; far belowThe cold stars shiver on the ocean floor.What nation is that rising ’gainst the foeIn revolution fierce? What antique loreDo those bells toll? Whence comes this overflowOf tones so sweet that we can bear no more?ARTHUR MILLIKEN.
Ethereal and pale, pure melody,Was Shelley’s song, while Keats could never singWithout more warmth and depth of coloring:But Chopin soars unshackled, truly free,For music is a higher poetry,Not bound by clumsy words, so it may wingIts way through groves celestial or clingTo the warm couch of wine and revelry.I hear the sea wind crooning; far belowThe cold stars shiver on the ocean floor.What nation is that rising ’gainst the foeIn revolution fierce? What antique loreDo those bells toll? Whence comes this overflowOf tones so sweet that we can bear no more?ARTHUR MILLIKEN.
Ethereal and pale, pure melody,Was Shelley’s song, while Keats could never singWithout more warmth and depth of coloring:But Chopin soars unshackled, truly free,For music is a higher poetry,Not bound by clumsy words, so it may wingIts way through groves celestial or clingTo the warm couch of wine and revelry.
Ethereal and pale, pure melody,
Was Shelley’s song, while Keats could never sing
Without more warmth and depth of coloring:
But Chopin soars unshackled, truly free,
For music is a higher poetry,
Not bound by clumsy words, so it may wing
Its way through groves celestial or cling
To the warm couch of wine and revelry.
I hear the sea wind crooning; far belowThe cold stars shiver on the ocean floor.What nation is that rising ’gainst the foeIn revolution fierce? What antique loreDo those bells toll? Whence comes this overflowOf tones so sweet that we can bear no more?
I hear the sea wind crooning; far below
The cold stars shiver on the ocean floor.
What nation is that rising ’gainst the foe
In revolution fierce? What antique lore
Do those bells toll? Whence comes this overflow
Of tones so sweet that we can bear no more?
ARTHUR MILLIKEN.
ARTHUR MILLIKEN.