Walter Emerson

Ah, prince of thine art, no more, no more

     We hear thy stirring trumpet call

     Or catch the pleasing rise and fall

Of silv’ry wavelets on the shore, –

The rhythmic rill and wild sea’s roar.

Thy voice is stilled, but memory

     That matchless gift of thine will keep,

     So whilst thou goest on in sleep

We hold what we have heard from thee.

May nothing harmful, spot or dent,

Befall thy cherished instrument.

And to those hearts that miss thee so,

We would that they should hereby know

     That ours respond in sympathy.

June 10, ‘93

Pub. in the

“Leader”, July, ‘93