Green Glass Violins

His face was cracked like candlewax,
His mouth was thin Iike wire,
The tormented young composer threw
his papers into the fire.
By the flickering flame his fingers
stroked the claviret,
While throbbing gently grew the drone of string quartets.
The falcon birds of winter were screaming in the trees,
While rain it broke-beaded like chains or window glass like grease
From a panel in the study waII,
Behind the candelabra,
He removed a smali cigar box
wilthin a miniature orchestra.