The harmonies that maestros seek to find!
Last night those old trees said: “Oh, brother, stay!
That song you played just now we seem to know,
We heard it sung a million years ago!”
I said “It’s mine!” They sighed. I passed away;
And even the flowers along the lonely track
Said: “Poor, brief thing with feet and weary back.”
’Twas then the River, old and full of tears,
Stopped by the hills and called, inquired of me—
“Comrade, is this the right way to the sea?”