Who longs for music merely longs for Love.
For Love's music, and no minstrel needs
Save his own sigh to breathe upon the reeds
From heart too full, and — like the adoring dove
That cooes all day the darling nest above,
Content if hour to happy hour succeeds —
Nor morning's song, nor noon's rich silence, heeds,
Nor the old mysteries evening whispers of.

But when the voice is echoless, the hand
Long empty, then, O wedded harp and flute,
Remind us Love's eternal, not Time's toy.
O viol, at whose door of pain we stand,
Love in thy muted anguish is not mute,
But thrills with memory's new-remembered joy.