Ah, Dvorak, why must your goblins be so loud?
They trumpet and cymbal and resound—
does the water in your symphony flow
tremulous and violent as it roaringly goes?
What triumphant music can pour in that stream
like the racing of that neverending, exciting dream—
but the violence that pervades this victorious air
can be equally met, like a dragons ravenous stare—
you composed stories in the mind, told to your tunes,
and our minds hoisted aloft by your music-filled balloons

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