Thomas Hardy — Haunting Fingers

“Are you awake,        &nbsp       &nbsp Comrades, this silent night?        &nbsp Well ’twere if all of our glossy gluey make Lay in the damp without, and fell to fragments quite!”        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “O viol, my friend,        &nbsp       &nbsp I watch, though Phosphor nears,        &nbsp And I fain would drowse away to its utter end This dumb dark stowage after our loud melodious years!” And they felt past handlers clutch them,        &nbsp Though none was in the room, Old players’ dead fingers touch them,        &nbsp       &nbsp Shrunk in the tomb.        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “‘Cello, good mate,        &nbsp       &nbsp You speak my mind as yours:        &nbsp Doomed to this voiceless, crippled, corpselike state, Who, dear to famed Amphion, trapped here, long endures?”        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “Once I could thrill        &nbsp       &nbsp The populace through and through,        &nbsp Wake them to passioned pulsings past their will.” . . . (A contra-basso spake so, and the rest sighed anew.) And they felt old muscles travel        &nbsp Over their tense contours, And with long skill unravel        &nbsp       &nbsp Cunningest scores.        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “The tender pat        &nbsp       &nbsp Of her aery finger-tips        &nbsp Upon me daily - I rejoiced thereat!” (Thuswise a harpsicord, as from dampered lips.)        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “My keys’ white shine,        &nbsp       &nbsp Now sallow, met a hand        &nbsp Even whiter. . . . Tones of hers fell forth with mine In sowings of sound so sweet no lover could withstand!” And its clavier was filmed with fingers        &nbsp Like tapering flames - wan, cold - Or the nebulous light that lingers        &nbsp       &nbsp In charnel mould.        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “Gayer than most        &nbsp       &nbsp Was I,” reverbed a drum;        &nbsp “The regiments, marchings, throngs, hurrahs! What a host I stirred - even when crape mufflings gagged me well-nigh dumb!”        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp Trilled an aged viol:        &nbsp       &nbsp “Much tune have I set free        &nbsp To spur the dance, since my first timid trial Where I had birth - far hence, in sun-swept Italy!” And he feels apt touches on him        &nbsp From those that pressed him then; Who seem with their glance to con him,        &nbsp       &nbsp Saying, “Not again!”        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “A holy calm,”        &nbsp       &nbsp Mourned a shawm’s voice subdued,        &nbsp “Steeped my Cecilian rhythms when hymn and psalm Poured from devout souls met in Sabbath sanctitude.”        &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “I faced the sock        &nbsp       &nbsp Nightly,” twanged a sick lyre,        &nbsp “Over ranked lights! O charm of life in mock, O scenes that fed love, hope, wit, rapture, mirth, desire!” Thus they, till each past player        &nbsp Stroked thinner and more thin, And the morning sky grew grayer        &nbsp       &nbsp And day crawled in.