On a Portrait by Tintoretto in the Colonna Gallery

An old man sitting in the evening light,
Touching a spinet: there is stormy blow
In the red heavens; but he does not know
How fast the clouds are faring to the night:
He hears the sunset as he thrums some slight
Soft tune that clears the track of long ago.
And as his musings wander to and fro
Where the years passed along, a sage delight
Is creeping in his eyes. His soul is old,
The sky is old, the sunset browns to grey;
But he to some dear country of his youth
By those few notes of music borne away,
Is listening to a story that is told.
And listens smiling at the story's truth.