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The Old Guitar

Neglected now is the old

And moldering into decay;

Fretted with many a rift and

That the dull dust hides away,

While the spider spins a silver

In its silent lips to-day.

The keys hold only nerveless strings—The sinews of brave old

Are pulseless now; and the scarf that

So closely here declaresA sad regret in its

And the faded hue it wears.

But the old guitar, with a lenient grace,

Has cherished a smile for me;

And its features hint of a fairer

That comes with a

Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted

And a moonlit balcony.

Music sweeter than words confess,

Or the minstrel's powers invent,

Thrilled here once at the light

Of the fairy hands that

This excuse for the kiss I

On the dear old instrument.

The rose of pearl with the jeweled

Still blooms; and the tiny

In the circle all are here; the

In the keys, and the silver frets;

But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them—Alas for the heart's regrets!—Alas for the loosened strings to-day,

And the wounds of rift and

On a worn old heart, with its

Enthralled with a stronger

That Fate weaves on, through a dull

Like that of the old guitar!

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James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley (October 7, 1849 – July 22, 1916) was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. During his lifetime he was known a…
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