The ancient songs
Pass deathward mournfully.
R.A.

The old songs
Die.
Yes, the old songs die.
Cold lips that sang them,
Cold lips that sang them
The old songs die,
And the lips that sang them
Are only a pinch of dust.

I saw in Pamplona
In a musty museum
I saw in Pamplona
In a buff-colored museum
I saw in Pamplona

A memorial
Of the dead violinist;
I saw in Pamplona
A memorial
Of Pablo Sarasate.

Dust was inch-deep on the cases,
Dust on the stick-pins and satins,
Dust on the badges and orders,
On the wreath from the oak of Guernica!

The old songs
Die
And the lips that sang them.
Wreaths, withered and dusty,
Cuff-buttons with royal insignia,
These, in a musty museum,
Are all that is left of Sarasate.