Nay, Music, thou art young! Not long ago
Thou hadst but rounded to thy perfect form.
Thy virginal, sweet heart was hardly warm,
And little knew of passion or of woe.
Now, prescient darling of the world's old age —
Born to its gather'd wealth, its subtlety
And sadness — thou can'st sound the soundless sea,
Deeper than line of deepest thought can gauge.
Thy voice, veil'd seraph serving among men,
Wakes strains in us immortal as thine own;
O say thou wilt not vanish from our ken,
Fly our dim earth as elder lights have flown,
And leave us dumb amidst the tuneful spheres,
With nothing lasting to the end but tears!
