The French Horn

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Cello or violin --The lament of singing wood --This I know, for thisI have heard and understood.

And flute-song, poignant, pure,Whose twilight grieving isNot sorrow, but sorrow's perfectMetamorphosis.

Lute too, and lyre, and harpSpeak, and the ear, the airAche with old wounds -- yet theseSpirit and flesh can bear.

But this note, passionless, sad,Like the voice of one betrayedHaunts the heart; grief's ghostThat will not be laid.

© Gilbert Ruth