Music and Love
Who longs for music merely longs for Love.
For Love's music, and no minstrel needs
Save his own sigh to breathe upon the reeds
From heart too full, and — like the adoring dove
That cooes all day the darling nest above,
Content if hour to happy hour succeeds —
Nor morning's song, nor noon's rich silence, heeds,
Nor the old mysteries evening whispers of.
But when the voice is echoless, the hand
Long empty, then, O wedded harp and flute,
Remind us Love's eternal, not Time's toy.
O viol, at whose door of pain we stand,
Love in thy muted anguish is not mute,
But thrills with memory's new-remembered joy.
For Love's music, and no minstrel needs
Save his own sigh to breathe upon the reeds
From heart too full, and — like the adoring dove
That cooes all day the darling nest above,
Content if hour to happy hour succeeds —
Nor morning's song, nor noon's rich silence, heeds,
Nor the old mysteries evening whispers of.
But when the voice is echoless, the hand
Long empty, then, O wedded harp and flute,
Remind us Love's eternal, not Time's toy.
O viol, at whose door of pain we stand,
Love in thy muted anguish is not mute,
But thrills with memory's new-remembered joy.
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