THE CONDUCTOR
Finally at the end of the day,
When the sun was buried and
There was no more to say,
He would lift idly his hand,
And softly the small starsf
Orchestra would begin
Playing over the first bars
Of the nightfs overture.
He listened with the dayfs breath
Bated, trying to be sure
That what he heard was at one
With his own score, that nothing,
No casual improvisation
Or sounding of a false chord,
Troubled the deep peace.
It was this way he adored
With a godfs ignorance of sin
The self he had composed.