WHEN last I heard the trembling 'cello play,
In every face I saw sad memories
That from dark, secret chambers where they lay
Rose and looked forth from melancholy eyes.
So every mournful thought found there a tone
To match despondence; sorrow knew its mate;
Ill fortune sighed, and mute despair made moan;
And one deep chord gave answer, 'Late, —too late!'
Then ceased the quivering strain, and swift returned
Unto its depths the secret of each heart;
Each face took on its mask, where lately burned,
A spirit charmed to sight by music's art;
But unto one who caught that inner flame
No face of all can ever seem the same.
Richard Watson Gilder
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cello-2/
