The viola ceased its resonant throbbing, the violin
Was silent, the flute was still.
The voice of the singer was suddenly hushed. Only
The silence seemed to thrill

With the last echo of music, hovering over
The nodding heads of the listeners bowed and few;
And I became aware of the long light through a window,
Of the beauty of silence, of the beauty of you

Never so sharply known as when, beside you,
I dared not look to see
What thought shone out of your face, or if, like marble,
It hid its thought from me.

Never so lovely had music seemed, as when
Its lips were closed, its beauty said,
Its arrow of sound lost forever in the singing of the infinite;
And I could not turn my head,

In the motionless azure of silence that descended upon us,
Lest, somehow, you should not be there,
Or shine too much or little with the momentary beauty
Of which I was bitterly aware.

It was as if the mingled clear voices of the music,
Which the heart for a moment happily knew,
Had somehow, in the instant of their cessation,
Falling from air, become the beauty of you.

O white-flamed chord of many notes miraculously sung
In the blue universe of silence there for me:
I shall remember you thus when you are old and I am saddened;
And continents darken between us, or the silence of the sea.