A
Sonnet
I
sit among the brasses in the back
The
strings and winds before me in array.
A
full-voiced choir, like angels in a pack
Behind
me stand and do not fly away,
For
there is one who holds them to a task
On
earth, though one would think that heaven called,
The
strains are so sublime. One seems to bask
In
higher realms than these terrestrial halls.
The
muse, adept at universal flight,
His
chosen task no less than death's lament,
Wields
word and wind with visionary might
And
fits each listening soul for his ascent
To
lofty places far beyond our skies
That
never were beheld by human eyes.
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