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All this his fiddle plays,
And many a thing
As strange, when his mood so lays
The bow to the string.

Sleepless! He never sleeps
That I can find.
I marvel how he keeps
A bit of his mind.

There is neither sight nor sound
In the world of sense,
But he has fathomed and found
In the silvery tense

Keen cords on the amber wood.
As he wrings them thence,
Death smiles at his hardihood
For recompense.

Oh fair they are, so fair!
No tongue can tell
How he sets them chiming there
Clear as a bell.

An orchard of birds in June,
The winds that stream,
The cold sea-brooks that croon,
The storms that scream,

The planets that float and swing
Like buoys on the tide,
The north-going legions in spring,
The hills that abide,

The frigate-bird clouds that range,
The vagabond moon–
That wilful lover of change–
And the workaday sun,

Dying summer and fall,
Seasons and men
And herds, he has them all
In his shadowy ken.

He calls and they come, leaving strife,
Leaving discord and death,
Out of oblivion to life,
Though its span be a breath.

There they are, all the beautiful things
I loved and lost sight of
Long since in the far-away springs,
Come back for a night of

New being as good as their old,
Aye, better in fact,
For somehow he gilds their fine gold,–
Gives the one thing they lacked,

The breath, aspiration, desire,
Core, kindle, control,
Memory and rapture and fire,–
The touch of man’s soul.

How know the true master? I know
By my joys and my fears,
For my heart crumbles down like the snow
With spring rain into tears.

Now I am a precious one!
With nothing to do
But idle here in the sun
And gossip with you

Of a stranger you have not seen,
As like never will.
I would every soul had a screen,
When the wind sets ill

In the world’s bleak house, like this
Strange lodger of mine.
His presence is worse to miss
Than sun’s best shine.

I put no thought at all
Upon the end,
If only I may call
Such a man friend.

And a friend he is, heart light
With love for heft,
Proud as silence, whose right
Hand ignores his left.

Yes, odd! he gives his name
As Spiritus.
But that is vague as a flame
In the wind to us.

And then (but not a breath
Of this!) you see,
All his effects, my faith!
Are marked D.V.

His cape-coat has a rip,
But for all that,
(Folk smile, suggest a dip
In the dyer’s vat,–

Those purple aldermen
Who roll about
In coaches, drive till ten,
And die of gout),

I think he finely shows
How learning’s crumbs
At least can rival those
Of– ‘st, here he comes!