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Kenneth Slessor - Full Orchestra
Work rating: Low

MY words are the poor footmen of your pride, 
 Of what you cry, you trumpets, each to each 
 With mouths of air; my speech is the dog-speech 
 Of yours, the Roman tongue—but mine is tied 
 By harsher bridles, dumb with breath and bone. 
 Vainly it mocks the dingo strings, the stops, 
 The pear-tree flying in the flute, with drops 
 Of music, quenched and scattered by your own. 
 So serving-men, who run all night with wine, 
 And whet their ears, and crouch upon the floor, 
 Sigh broken words no man has heard before 
 Or since, but ravished in the candleshine, 
 Between the push and shutting of a door, 
 From the great table where their masters dine.
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