THE HARP

In a dark corner of the room,

Perhaps forgotten by its owner,

Silent and dim with dust,

I saw the harp.

How many musics slumbered in its strings,

As the bird sleeps in the branches,

Waiting the snowy hand

That could awaken them.

Ah me, I thought, how many, many times

Genius thus slumbers in a human soul,

Waiting, as Lazarus waited, for a voice

To bid him “Rise and walk.”