Bach and the Sentry

Watching the dark my spirit rose in flood

   On that most dearest Prelude of my delight.

The low-lying mist lifted its hood,

   The October stars showed nobly in clear night.

When I return, and to real music-making,

   And play that Prelude, how will it happen then?

Shall I feel as I felt, a sentry hardly waking,

   With a dull sense of No Man's Land again?