Music
A wind-song in the rushes, or a sigh
From Autumn's chorus in the naked trees,
The white-stoled chanting of the stately seas
Against a line of cliffs that tower high—
A plover's rippling whistle in the sky
Or wailing of the flutes in minor keys:
I in my time have harked to all of these
And reedy plash of waters lisping by.
But Oh! how harsh such chords must ever seem
Since in my heart I hear an echo come
More sweet and low than plaint of mourning-dove;
The reflex of the note that is my dream,
That music which makes other music dumb
The voice of the one woman whom I love.
From Autumn's chorus in the naked trees,
The white-stoled chanting of the stately seas
Against a line of cliffs that tower high—
A plover's rippling whistle in the sky
Or wailing of the flutes in minor keys:
I in my time have harked to all of these
And reedy plash of waters lisping by.
But Oh! how harsh such chords must ever seem
Since in my heart I hear an echo come
More sweet and low than plaint of mourning-dove;
The reflex of the note that is my dream,
That music which makes other music dumb
The voice of the one woman whom I love.
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