Classic Poem

O great tone-master! low thy massive head
Droops, heavy with the thoughts that fain would weave
Themselves in interlacing chords, that leave
Sublimest music. Inspiration sped
On dainty pinions to thy natal bed,
And warbling notes did all the silence cleave
As for a benediction; well believe
The votaries that hie where thou hast led,
In thy supreme endowment. Who as well
Can wake the Orphic echoes? Thou dost muse,
And harmony, the sweetest, is evolved.
In grave sonatas rich with surging swell,
In matchless symphonies — but thou couldst choose —
The mystery of music thou hast solved.