Can You Give Me An Example Of A Quince Poem?

IM DOIN MY ENGLISH HOMEWORK BUT I DONT KNOE WHAT A QUINCE POEM LOOK LIKE OR HOW TO DO IT


NEED HELP

Can You Give Me An Example Of A Quince Poem?
Here you go:





Peter Quince at the Clavier





I





Just as my fingers on these keys


Make music, so the self-same sounds


On my spirit make a music, too.


Music is feeling, then, not sound;


And thus it is that what I feel,


Here in this room, desiring you,





Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,


Is music. It is like the strain


Waked in the elders by Susanna;





Of a green evening, clear and warm,


She bathed in her still garden, while


The red-eyed elders, watching, felt





The basses of their beings throb


In witching chords, and their thin blood


Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.





II





In the green water, clear and warm,


Susanna lay.


She searched


The touch of springs,


And found


Concealed imaginings.


She sighed,


For so much melody.





Upon the bank, she stood


In the cool


Of spent emotions.


She felt, among the leaves,


The dew


Of old devotions.





She walked upon the grass,


Still quavering.


The winds were like her maids,


On timid feet,


Fetching her woven scarves,


Yet wavering.





A breath upon her hand


Muted the night.


She turned --


A cymbal crashed,


Amid roaring horns.





III





Soon, with a noise like tambourines,


Came her attendant Byzantines.





They wondered why Susanna cried


Against the elders by her side;





And as they whispered, the refrain


Was like a willow swept by rain.





Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame


Revealed Susanna and her shame.





And then, the simpering Byzantines


Fled, with a noise like tambourines.





IV





Beauty is momentary in the mind --


The fitful tracing of a portal;


But in the flesh it is immortal.





The body dies; the body's beauty lives.


So evenings die, in their green going,


A wave, interminably flowing.


So gardens die, their meek breath scenting


The cowl of winter, done repenting.


So maidens die, to the auroral


Celebration of a maiden's choral.





Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings


Of those white elders; but, escaping,


Left only Death's ironic scraping.


Now, in its immortality, it plays


On the clear viol of her memory,


And makes a constant sacrament of praise.








Hope this helps!