The Fiddling Wood
Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron,
Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked
Over the rough crest of the hairy wood
In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked,
Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ
The trees with magic. All the wood was still -
Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples
Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose,
Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth -
Enchantment's days were over - sh! - Suppose
That crouching log there, where the white light stipples
Should - break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON - EARTH?
It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, 'Danger!' -
I hunched my cloak about me - then, appalled,
Turned ice and fire by turns - for - someone stirred
The brown, dry needles sharply! Terror crawled
Along my spine, as forth there stepped - a Stranger!
And all the pines crooned like a drowsy bird!
His stock was black. His great shoe-buckles glistened.
His fur cuffs ended in a sheen of rings.
And underneath his coat a case bulged blackly -
He swept his beaver in a rush of wings!
Then took the fiddle out, and, as I listened,
Tightened and tuned the yellowed strings, hung slackly.
Ping! Pang! The clear notes swooped and curved and darted,
Rising like gulls. Then, with a finger skinny,
He rubbed the bow with rosin, said, 'Your pardon
Signor! - Maestro Nicolo Paganini
They used to call me! Tchk! - The cold grips hard on
A poor musician's fingers!' - His lips parted.
A tortured soul screamed suddenly and loud,
From the brown, quivering case! Then, faster, faster,
Dancing in flame-like whorls, wild, beating, screaming,
The music wailed unutterable disaster;
Heartbroken murmurs from pale lips once proud,
Dead, choking moans from hearts once nobly dreaming.
Till all resolved in anguish - died away
Upon one minor chord, and was resumed
In anguish; fell again to a low cry,
Then rose triumphant where the white fires fumed,
Terrible, marching, trampling, reeling, gay,
Hurling mad, broken legions down to die
Through everlasting hells - The tears were salt
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poem by Stephen Vincent Benet
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