A Mood

WORDS praising music, what are they but leaves
Whirled round the fountain by the wind that grieves.
Frail human speech falls idly as the snow
On the red lava's flow,—
Still pours the music on, all passion and flame;
As music passes, that which music came,—
Ever the same, with message never the same.

by Richard Watson Gilder

Comments (1)

Great Poem Aram, I thought it was very moving, Nicely done. Best Wishes Helgard