Haunting Fingers Thomas Hardy

“Are you awake,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Comrades, this silent night?
       &nbsp Well ’twere if all of our glossy gluey make
Lay in the damp without, and fell to fragments quite!”

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “O viol, my friend,
       &nbsp       &nbsp I watch, though Phosphor nears,
       &nbsp And I fain would drowse away to its utter end
This dumb dark stowage after our loud melodious years!”

And they felt past handlers clutch them,
       &nbsp Though none was in the room,
Old players’ dead fingers touch them,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Shrunk in the tomb.

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “‘Cello, good mate,
       &nbsp       &nbsp You speak my mind as yours:
       &nbsp Doomed to this voiceless, crippled, corpselike state,
Who, dear to famed Amphion, trapped here, long endures?”

       &nbsp       &nbsp       &nbsp “Once I could thrill
       &nbsp       &nbsp The populace through and through,
       &nbsp Wake them to passioned pulsings past their will.” . . .
(A contra-basso spake so, and the rest sighed anew.)

And they felt old muscles travel
       &nbsp Over their tense contours,
And with long skill unravel
       &nbsp       &nbsp Cunningest scores.