Like resonant winds, sounding amid the trees
Hanging above cold, rock-strewn valleys, where,
In cavernous glooms, weird echoes made their lair,
Rolled out the passion of thy symphonies:
The mighty chorus of tumultuous seas,
That tossed white crests, lurid with phosphor glare,
When heavy night was black with Typhon's hair,
Made answer when thy fingers touched the keys.
There are no years, no centuries, for thee;
Thy spirit rose beyond the realms of pain,
Reaching that zone where love holds regal sway;
And at the meeting of the land and sea,
Listening, we hear the murmur of a strain
No other hand but thine could ever play.