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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=116239" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Toccata of Galuppi's</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!<br>I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;<br>But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.<br>What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings,<br>Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by . . . what you call<br>. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival:<br>I was never out of England—it's as if I saw it all.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?<br>Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,<br>When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,—<br>On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,<br>O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Well, and it was graceful of them—they'd break talk off and afford<br>—She, to bite her mask's black velvet—he, to finger on his sword,<br>While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh<br>Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions—"Must we die?"<br>Those commiserating sevenths—"Life might last! we can but try!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Were you happy?"—"Yes."—"And are you still as happy?"—"Yes. And you?"<br>—"Then, more kisses!"—"Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?"<br>Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!<br>"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!<br>"I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"</div><div style="margin:10px 0">X</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,<br>Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,<br>Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,<br>While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve,<br>In you come with your cold music till I creep thro' every nerve.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned:<br>"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.<br>"The soul, doubtless, is immortal—where a soul can be discerned.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology,<br>"Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;<br>"Butterflies may dread extinction,—you'll not die, it cannot be!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,<br>"Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:<br>"What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.<br>Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what's become of all the gold<br>Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Browning">Robert Browning</a> from <i>Men and Women</i><div class=q>
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