We expected the violin's finger on the upturned nerve;
Its importunate cry, too laxly curved:
And you drew us an oboe-outline, clean and acute;
Unadorned statement, accurately carved.
We expected the screen, the background for reverie
Which cloudforms usefully weave:
And you built the immaculate, adamant, blue-green steel
Arch of a balanced wave.
We expected a pool with flowers to diffuse and break
The child-round face of the mirrored moon:
And you blazed a rock-path, begun near the sun, to be finished
By the trained and intrepid feet of men.
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I feel, as I read this piece aloud, that there was a definitive rhyme-pattern at work here. But, there are no rhymes in this piece. Not in form anyhow. But, there seems to be a type of definitive feel and pattern to it. Though the words in the bb sense do not rhyme, there is a type of accolade there I feel.
This epitaph is not hauntingly felt, or it is, and I just don't perceive that view. It is direct and forthright, it doesn't break and it doesn't part away from the discourse in which it perceives.
It's a quaint piece, I feel.
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