Is his ghost moved by the plaintive strains
Of the andantino the violinists play for him,
In his name? The notes surge and swirl
Around the drawing room and out into the garden,
Where primroses breathe out the fragrance that he loved.
Is he walking out there, ever so quietly,
Reminiscing in the garden
About something he believed
He did not bring to fruition,
Even now as whippoorwills whirl and wheel
About him and through him in the sun?
Perhaps he fingers with fingers unseen
A wandering rose hanging from a trellis,
Dangling there like a kiss,
Blown like pollen from some remembered lips,
Suspended there, like notes in the air.
Is he pleased now,
To know that he can resign himself at last
To imperfection, that he can really be at rest?