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I taste a pasty never baked
I taste a pastry never baked—
From ovens made of gold—
Not all the kilns of Paris
Yeild such a taste Divine!
Epicurean of Symphonies — am I —
And Conosseiuer of crescendo —
Floating — through endless concert halls—
On arcs of reedy oboe —
When “Ushers” turn the final listener
Out of the woodframed door —
When pianists — renounce their keys —
I shall but taste the more!
Till Composers swing their well-worn Notes —
And Directors — to concerts hurry —
To see the little Baker
Tasting the first — Melody —
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This article has 4 comments.
Ah-mazing!
Very nice imagery and awesome word use :)