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THE SERENADE / James Paul Evening in the village: the breeze Strikes quietly into the wide leaves Of the sycamores, the chords borne Down through rootstems toward silence, Like this twilight falling. In the square Hungry families come home from the fields, And on the balcony the player appears With his violin, flinging his music As if casually into the breeze, as if Offhandedly over the ongoing passersby. They don't miss what they don't need, This light, the sound like golden hair, And when the serenade is over, the player Retires, and the still evening arrives. Inside he knows no house is ample enough; He knows music is not music alone. The Missouri Review ยท 27 ...

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