The Orchestra That Played

THERE was an orchestra that played in the land of might-have-been,
And the fiddlers had fat faces and the fiddles they played were lean;
The flutes were as shrill as the whistles that are carried by stout police,
And the clarinets stuck out in rows like the necks of the flying geese.

And very thin were the tunes they played, as thin as a thin, thin soup,
They whispered softly as falling leaves when the autumn branches droop.
The breath of the blowers was louder yet than the notes that the blowers blew,
And the cellists sawed at their shaking strings, but hardly a sound came through.

And I saw the trumpeter trumpeting, but the sound was far away,
Like the skirl of a Jura bagpipe from the shores of Colonsay;
The tympanist thumped his kettledrums, but the noise was faint and small,
As if a ghost with a wooden leg went tiptoe across the hall.

Was it an audience I saw, or rows of unpeopled chairs,
And were they the ghosts within my hall, or was I the ghost in theirs?
I stared at the tall conductor, who swayed with a stately grace,
His hands were long and his hands were lean, and I feared to see his face.

So I left them there with their faded tune, like a muted summer stream;
And were they the world that was wide awake, and was I a moment’s dream?
The players were fat and lightly clad and the music was thin and gray,
And I hoisted my clouds about my head and I softly came away.