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Poem by Alice Corbin Henderson Music The ancient songs Pass deathward mournfully. R.A. The old songs Die. Yes, the old songs die. Cold lips that sang them, Cold lips that sang them— The old songs die, And the lips that sang them Are only a pinch of dust. I saw in Pamplona In a musty museum— I saw in Pamplona In a buff-colored museum— I saw in Pamplona 59A memorial Of the dead violinist; I saw in Pamplona A memorial Of Pablo Sarasate. Dust was inch-deep on the cases, Dust on the stick-pins and satins, Dust on the badges and orders, On the wreath from the oak of Guernica! The old songs Die— And the lips that sang them. Wreaths, withered and dusty, Cuff-buttons with royal insignia, These, in a musty museum, Are all that is left of Sarasate. Alice Corbin Henderson Alice Corbin Henderson's other poems: Poems of the other poets with the same name: 1281 Views |
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