Peach-Colour to a Soap-Bubble

A MAN made a symphony Out of the chords of his soul. The notes ran upon the air like flights of chickadees, They gathered together and hung As bees above a syringa bush. They crowded and clicked upon one another In a flurry of progression. And crashed in the simultaneous magnificence Of a grand finale.

All this he heard. But the neighbors heard only the croak Of a wheezy, second-hand flageolet.

Forced to seek another lodging He took refuge under the arch of a bridge. For the river below him might be convenient Some day.