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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=429731" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Full Orchestra</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=429731" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">MY words are the poor footmen of your pride, <br>Of what you cry, you trumpets, each to each <br>With mouths of air; my speech is the dog-speech <br>Of yours, the Roman tongue—but mine is tied <br>By harsher bridles, dumb with breath and bone. <br>Vainly it mocks the dingo strings, the stops, <br>The pear-tree flying in the flute, with drops <br>Of music, quenched and scattered by your own. <br>So serving-men, who run all night with wine, <br>And whet their ears, and crouch upon the floor, <br>Sigh broken words no man has heard before <br>Or since, but ravished in the candleshine, <br>Between the push and shutting of a door, <br>From the great table where their masters dine.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Kenneth+Slessor">Kenneth Slessor</a></strong></div>

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