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Show - To Face a Concert. When the low music makes a dusk of sound, About us, and tba viol of far-oft horn Swells out above . wind forlorn. That wanders, seeking something never found, . What phantom In your brain, on what dim ground. Traces Its shadowy lines? What vision, born Of unfulfillment, fades - in mere self-scorn, self-scorn, Or grows, from that still twilight stealing round? When the lids droop and the hands lie unstrung. Dare one divine your dream, while th chords weave Their cloudy woof from key to key and die, It Is one fate that, since the world was young. Had followed man, and made him half believe The voice of instruments a human cry? |