Classic Poem

His light baton the leader waves,
The violinist draws his bow,
And round me streams of music flow,
Wherein my joyful spirit laves.

O dulcet sounds! Well can I tell
That born ye were in Italy;
Whose tuneful measures have, for me,
A sweetness inexpressible.

O dulcet sounds, upon whose wing
My spirit mounts to other sphere,
Is it a choir divine I hear,
And angels that in rapture sing?

Ye seize my soul in swift embrace,
And bear it from the things of earth;
A being of celestial birth
Am I, with Heaven my dwelling-place.