Classic Poem

( SCHUBERT NO . 4)

I N minor tones the questioning begins,
With solemn iteration; while the bass
Forever rises, seeking for its place,
Like to some troubled soul, confessing sins.
Forever treading in one round, there come
The questions why, and wherefore, and from whence,
With glimpses of a vague magnificence,
As the glad major leads the minor home.
Rising and falling, still the theme repeats
Its questions unto thee, my listening heart —
Answer the music, tell it what thou art;
Here aspiration all thy thought completes.

It is coming, it is coming,
Dost thou hear it, is it spirit?
Through the twilight, in the gloaming
It is roaming.

Ah, the answer, — do not palter.
It comes singing, it comes ringing,
Tell thy secret, do not falter;
Can'st thou alter?

Then in silence dies the answer,
All the singing hushed in sadness;
Such deep joy could not be lasting.
And with solemn iteration
Come again the urgent questions,
Questions why, and whence, and whither,
Who can answer, who can fathom?
Till at last, with wistful pauses
All the music proudly gathers,
Chaunts its song in softest murmur,
And becomes a mighty silence, —
Silence, which is not despairing,
Silence, with a minor echo,
Silence, which is near content.