But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,
While I triumph o’er a secret wrung from nature’s close reserve,
In you come with your cold music till I creep thro’ every nerve.

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned: 
“Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. 
The soul, doubtless, is immortal—­where a soul can be discerned.

“Yours, for instance:  you know physics, something of geology,
Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;
Butterflies may dread extinction,—­you’ll not die, it cannot be! deg. deg.39

“As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, 40 Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:  What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

“Dust and ashes!” So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.  Dear dead women, with such hair, too—­what’s become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms?  I feel chilly and grown old.

* * * * *

ABT VOGLER

(AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING UPON THE
MUSICAL INSTRUMENT OF HIS INVENTION)

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build,
  Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work,
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon deg. willed deg.3
  Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk,
Man, brute, reptile, fly,—­alien of end and of aim,
  Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,—­
Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name,
  And pile him a palace deg. straight, to pleasure the princess he loved! deg.8

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine,
  This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! 10
Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine,
  Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! 
And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell,
  Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things,
Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well,
  Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs.

And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was,
  Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest,
Raising my rampired deg. walls of gold as transparent as glass, deg.19
  Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest:  20
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire,
  When a great illumination surprises a festal night—­
Outlining round and round Rome’s dome deg. from space to spire) deg.23
  Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight.