Classic Poem

I love the murmur that begins
Among the reeds and 'celloes,
When all the varied violins
Tune up among their fellows.
I love the little pause—for then
What joy the short suspense is;
But oh, the leaping pulses when
The overture commences.

I love each heart-beat of the drum,
Each breath when flutes are dying,
The world, I feel, is overcome
When clarinets are sighing—
I love the grandiose sweep of strings
That tears me with its passion—
(Save one) there are no nobler things
For God or man to fashion.

And this would be my dearest choice—
I would give Music's splendor
To watch her sing—to hear her voice
In some old song and tender;
I would give every trumpet-call
To hear one ballad ringing
From her who cannot sing at all
And does not care for singing.