Art unapproachable,
Art all uncoachable,
Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.

The earth turns ever an ear unheeding
To the sorrows of art, as it cries 'encore.'
And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding,
And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore.
She knew the trend of it,
She knew the end of it -
Men heard the music and men felt the thrill.
Bound to the altar
Of art, could she falter?
Then came a silence--the music was still.

And yet in the echoes we seem to hear it;
In waves unbroken it circles the earth:
And we catch in the light of her dauntless spirit
A gleam from the centre that gave her birth.
Still is the fame of her
Felt in the name of her -
But low lies the harp that once thrilled to her strain;
No hand has taken it,
No hand can waken it -
For the soul of her art was her secret of pain.



TWO GHOSTS