Amy Lowell

A MAN made a symphony

Out of the chords of his soul.

The notes ran upon the air like flights of chickadees,

They gathered together and hung

As bees above a syringa bush,

They crowded and clicked upon one another

In a flurry of progression,

And crashed in the simultaneous magnificence

Of a grand finale.

All this he heard,

But the neighbors heard only the croak

Of a wheezy, second-hand flageolet.

Forced to seek another lodging

He took refuge under the arch of a bridge,

For the river below him might be convenient

Some day.