The Cello

Richard Watson Gilder (1844–1909)

WHEN late I heard the trembling cello play,

In every face I read sad memories

That from dark, secret chambers where they lay

Rose, and looked forth from melancholy eyes.

So every mournful thought found there a tone

To match despondence: sorrow knew its mate;

Ill fortune sighed, and mute despair made moan;

And one deep chord gave answer, “Late,—too late.”

Then ceased the quivering strain, and swift returned

Into its depths the secret of each heart;

Each face took on its mask, where lately burned

A spirit charmed to sight by music’s art;

But unto one who caught that inner flame

No face of all can ever seem the same.