Softly, softly, Niccolo Amati!

Softly,

S

 What can put such fancies in your head?

 There, go dream of your blue-skied Cremona,

 While I ponder something you have said.

 Something in that last low lovely cadence

 Piercing the green dusk alone and far,

 Named a new room in the house of knowledge,

 Waiting unfrequented, door ajar.

 While you dream then, let me unmolested

 Pass in childish wonder through that door,—

 Breathless, touch and marvel at the beauties

 Soon my wiser elders must explore.

 Ah, my Niccolo, it’s no great science

 We shall ever conquer, you and I.

 Yet, when you are nestled at my shoulder,

 Others guess not half that we descry.

67

 As all sight is but a finer hearing,

 Prev. P 65/99 next