Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art
      Is only to enchant the sense. 
  For every timid motion of the heart,
      And every passion too intense
  To bear the chain of the imperfect word,
      And every tremulous longing, stirred
  By spirit winds that come we know not whence
        And go we know not where,
        And every inarticulate prayer
  Beating about the depths of pain or bliss,
        Like some bewildered bird
  That seeks its nest but knows not where it is,
  And every dream that haunts, with dim delight,
  The drowsy hour between the day and night,
  The wakeful hour between the night and day,—­
        Imprisoned, waits for thee,
        Impatient, yearns for thee,
    The queen who comes to set the captive free! 
    Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away,
    And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height;
  And every dumb desire that storms within the breast
  Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest.

All these are thine, and therefore love is thine. 
For love is joy and grief,
And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief,
And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed,
In pain most human, and in rapture brief
Almost divine. 
Love would possess, yet deepens when denied;
And love would give, yet hungers to receive;
Love like a prince his triumph would achieve;
And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide. 
Love is most bold,
He leads his dreams like armed men in line;
Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak,
Calling the fortress to resign
Its treasure, valiant love grows weak,
And hardly dares his purpose to unfold. 
Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes
He claims the longed-for prize: 
Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold. 
But thou shalt speak for love.  Yea, thou shalt teach
The mystery of measured tone,
The Pentecostal speech
That every listener heareth as his own. 
For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire,—­
Diminished chords that quiver with desire,
And major chords that glow with perfect peace,—­
Have fallen from above;
And thou canst give release
In music to the burdened heart of love.

Sound with the ‘cellos’ pleading, passionate strain
The yearning theme, and let the flute reply
In placid melody, while violins complain,
And sob, and sigh,
With muted string;
Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing
Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain,
While ’cellos plead and plead again,
With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart
To every urgent tone the beating of the heart. 
So runs the andante, making plain
The hopes and fears of love without a word. 
Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme
Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream,
While horns and mild bassoons are heard
In tender tune, that seems to float