The Violinist
When you lounge there, the instrument beneath Your pointed chin, and slant your sea-grey eyes. And play historic airs of looe and death. And sweetest rhythms u)on from Paradise . . . Then do you seem for an enraptured hour As one who has supremacy of power; Aj one who guards With pride a royal place, And rouses warnings With a tempered cru . . . Soon, chords art silken-soft as Spanish lace. Or twilight sky-. No mood sustained I Old music from the north Curls smokily through melancholy dream; Lean fc'ngj from vaults of stalagmite pad forth. And furred things scream. S'oW, suddenly, song faints upon her Wing— You snap a string. —Paula Hanger.
Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/NZH19381029.2.220.34.1
Bibliographic details
New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23181, 29 October 1938, Page 5 (Supplement)
Word Count
111The Violinist New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23181, 29 October 1938, Page 5 (Supplement)
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Acknowledgements
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