THE past is never dumb. There's no foretelling
On what fine night, years after, carelessly twisting
The fluted knob of memory, ranging the ether
For random music to while an hour away,
You'll chance upon its wave-length, hair's-breadth trembling
Between the powerful signals of the near-at-hand.

It comes through faintly at first. The ear, straining,
Hears only the stressed beats; but soon, accustomed
To delicate vibrations, catches the flow of the tune.
And then eyes close, limbs slacken: but the spirit dances,
Weaving into long-lost patterns old steps recaptured,
Harvesting with wonder and delight this windfall joy.