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by Alfred Kreymborg, 1916

Why do you play
that long beautiful adagio,
that archaic air,
Will it never end?
Or is it the beginning,
some prelude you seek?
Is it a tale you strum?
Yesterday, yesterday—
Have you no more for us?
Play on.
There is nor hope
nor mutiny
in you.

Published in Mushrooms: A Book of Free Forms
Tags: nostalgia, thought, weather

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.