The Glass-Blower Poem by Jan Struther

BY the red furnace stands
Apollo mute,
Holding in upraised hands
His iron flute.
Slowly from back and brow
The bright sweat drips;
He sets the clarion now
Light to his lips,
And ever, as he blows,
Without a sound
His molten music flows,
Golden and round.

Never from herald's breath
In brazen horn,
Telling of strife and death
Or of peace new-born;
From silver clarinet
By fingers small
To lips of ruby set
In raftered hall;
From jilted shepherd's reed
Plaintively proving
How he in very deed
Must die of loving-
Never from all these came
A music sweeter
Than this bright sphere of flame
With neither sound nor name,
Cadence nor metre,
That steadily, as he blows
On his iron flute,
Trembles and swells and glows,
Gold-amber, amber-rose,
In melody mute.