A BOOKOF COPYRIGHT. ICHARD WATSON GILDER 1 MCMVI i CANNOT LEAVE THE LIBRARY. § g COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. i I LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. | '^ 9—165 m A BOOK OF MUSIC THE NEW DAY THE CELESTIAL PASSION LYRICS TWO WORLDS THE GREAT REMEMBRANCE THE AEOTE ALSO ly ONE VOLtlME EITTITLE FIVE BOOKS OF SONG IN PALESTINE AND OTHER POEMS POEMS AND INSCRIPTIONS "IN THE HEIGHTS" AliSO SELECTIONS ENTITIiET) FOR THE COUNTRY A CHRISTMAS WREATH A BOOK OF MUSIC A BOOK OF MUSIC BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. MCMVI UBRARy of CONGRESS 1 wo Coulee Kecuved OCT 8 1906 cuss CO AAC, No, COPY A. J^r^ \ \ m y PRELUDE WITHOUT intent, I find a book I 've writ And music is the pleasant theme (fit; Ear though 1 can no music make, I trust Here 's proof I love it. Though no reasoning fine Should any ask to show this art divine. Yet have I known even poets who refuse To name pure music as an equal muse. If music pleased them, 7 was not deeply felt. And in its charms they deemed it shame to melt ; Ear that, they held, it is an art where might 4 PRELUDE Even children give its votaries delight, And therefore lacking in the things of mind. But 't is not argued well. There is a kind Of music that a little child can give, Echoing great masters ; hut the masters live Not in such echo— elfish, immature ; ' T is hut a part of them. Ah, he ye sure ^ Though lovely, not the loveliest ; that must wait For him who noble moods can recreate With solemn, subtle, and deep-thoughted art That wins the mind or ere it takes the heart. For that a child may gracious music make Is hut a sign that music doth partake Of something deep, primeval, that began When God dreamed of himself, and fashioned man. ' T is near the source of being ; it repeats PRELUDE The vibrancy that runs in rhythmic beats Through all the shaken universe ; and though Its language shall take not the ebb and flow Of speech articulate, it is that tone Greaves closer to life's core ; the thing alone WelUnigh it is, not thought about the thing; No pictured flight across a painted sky,— The bird itself, the beating of its wing ; The pang that is a cry ; Not human language, but pure ecstasy. In this my BOOK OF MUSIC which hath come As doth a lover's litany by some Miraculous chance, with added song to song, I trust I have my Lady done no wrong,— My Lady of Melody I worshiped long. 6 PRELUDE Blameless the artist praises the sweet rose If in his art he aim not to compose An image, all inanimate, that seeks To copy shrewdly those inviolate cheeks Or the rich, natural odor imitate ; But shows, as best he can, its grace and state, The love that in him burns for this fair flower, And all his joy therein, for one brief hour. Nor shall the poet subtly strive to phrase For any heart save his what music says; For,— as before the autumn skies and woods,— A meaning gleams through our own human moods: Yet is the meaning real ; and many a wound VTherewith our spirits are beaten to the ground Heals 'neath the sanctity of noble sound. PRELUDE Ah, not to match the music of the wires Or trembling breath, the instruments and choirs, But to tell truly how that moves the soul In the impassionate and rhythmic word, By poesy's proper art,— which must be heard Even as music is! Not to forget The viol and the harp, the clarinet. The booming organ ; too, the intertwined Voices wherewith the sounding, rich clavier Under the master's hand enchants the ear,— If so may be to catch a fleeting strain And in new art imprison it again! Then let him list to music who would rhyme ; For every art, though separate, may learn. From the great souls in all, how to make burn 8 PRELUDE Brighter the light of beauty through all time. And scorn not thou to read of music's power Over one soul that in great humbleness His memory brings of many a happy hour, Hoping these echoed tones some wounded heart may MUSIC AND WORDS I THIS day I heard such music that I thought : Hath human speech the power thus to be wrought, Into such melody,— pure, sensuous sound,— Into such mellow, murmuring mazes caught ; Can words (I said), when these keen tones are bound (Silent, except in memory of this hour) — Can human words alone usurp the power Of trembling strings that thrill to the very soul. And of this ecstasy bring back the whole ? 9 10 MUSIC AND WORDS II Ah no, ('t was answered in my inmost heart,) Unto itself sufficient is each art. And each doth utter what none other can— Some hidden mood of the large soul of man. Ah, think not thou with words well interweaved To wake the tones wherein the viol grieved With its most heavy burden; think not thou. Adventurous, to push thy shallop's prow Into that surge of well-remembered tones. Striving to match each wandering wind that moans. Each bell that tolls, and every bugle's blowing With some most fitting word, some verse bestow- ing MUSIC AND WORDS 11 A never-shifting form on that which passed Swift as a bird that glimmers down the blast. Ill So, still unworded, save in memory mute, Rest thou sweet hour of viol and of lute ; Of thoughts that never, never can be spoken. Too frail for the rough usage of men's words — Thoughts that shall keep their silence all unbroken Till music once more stirs them ;— then like birds That in the night-time slumber, they shall wake. While all the leaves of all the forest shake. Oh, hark, I hear it now, that tender strain Fulfilled with all of sorrow save its pain. LISTENING TO MUSIC (RUBINSTEIN'S " OCEAN SYMPHONY;" FROM " THE NEW DAY") WHEN on that joyful sea Where billow on billow breaks ; where swift waves follow Waves, and hollow calls to hollow ; Where sea-birds swirl and swing, And winds through the rigging shrill and sing : Where night is one vast starless shade ; Where thy soul not afraid, Though all alone unlonely, Wanders and wavers, wavers wandering ; On that accursed sea One moment only. Forget one moment. Love, thy fierce content ; Back, let thy soul be bent,— Think back, dear Love ; O Love, think back to me. 12 BECAUSE THE ROSE MUST FADE" BECAUSE the rose must fade, Shall I not love the rose ? Because the summer shade Passes when winter blows. Shall I not rest me there In the cool air? II Because the sunset sky- Makes music in my soul, 13 14 " BECAUSE THE ROSE MUST FADE " Only to fail and die. Shall I not take the whole Of beauty that it gives While yet it lives ? Ill Because the sweet of youth Doth vanish all too soon Shall I forget, forsooth, To learn its lingering tune ; My joy to memorize In those young eyes ? IV K, like the summer flower That blooms,— a fragrant death,- (( BECAUSE THE ROSE MUST FADE " 15 Keen music hath no power To live beyond its breath, Then of this flood of song Let me drink long ! V Ah, yes, because the rose Doth fade like sunset skies ; Because rude winter blows All bare, and music dies— Therefore, now is to me Eternity ! ILL TIDINGS (THE STUDIO CONCERT) IN the long studio from whose towering walls Calm Pheidias beams, and Angelo appalls. Eager the listening, downcast faces throng While violins their piercing tones prolong. At times I know not if I see, or hear, Yon statue's smile, or some not sorrowing tear Down-falling on the surface of the stream That music pours across my waking dream. Ah, is it then a dream that while repeat Those chords, like strokes of silver-shod light feet, 16 ILL TIDINGS 17 And the great Master's music marches on — I hear the horses of the Parthenon? But all to-day seems vague, unreal, far, With fear and discord in the dearest strain, For 'neath yon slowly-sinking western star One that I love lies on her bed of pain. LIFE AND DEATH (FROM "NON SINE DOLORE ") WHAT, then, is Life,— what Death? Thus the Answerer saith ; O faithless mortal, bend thy head and listen : Down o'er the vibrant strings. That thrill, and moan and mourn, and glisten. The Master draws his bow. A voiceless pause ; then upward, see, it springs. Free as a bird with disimprisoned wings ! 18 LIFE AND DEATH 19 V In twain the chord was cloven, I |i While, shaken with woe, I With breaks of instant joy all interwoven, j Piercing the heart with lyric knife, 1 On, on the ceaseless music sings, I Restless, intense, serene :— Life is the downward stroke ; the upward, Life ; Death but the pause between. ESSIPOPP I WHAT is her playing like? I ask — while dreaming here under her music's power. 'T is like the leaves of the dark passion-flower Which grows on a strong vine whose roots, oh, deep they sink. Deep in the g^-ound, that flower's pure life to drink. 20 ESSIPOFP 21 II What is her playing like? 'T is like a bird Who, singing in a wild-wood, never knows That its lone melody is heard By wandering mortal, who forgets his heavy ''TO-NIGHT THE MUSIC DOTH A BURDEN BEAR" TO-NIGHT the music doth a burden bear— One word that moans and murmurs : doth exhale Tremulously as perfume on the air From out a rose blood-red, or lily pale. The burden is thy name, dear soul of me, Which the rapt melodist unknowing all Still doth repeat through fugue and reverie ; Thy name, to him unknown, to me doth call. And weeps my heart at every music-fall. 22 ADELE AUS DER OHE (LISZT) I WHAT is her playing like? 'T is like the wind in wintry northern valleys : A dream-pause ; then it rallies And once more bends the pine-tops, shatters The ice-crags, whitely scatters The spray along the paths of avalanches. Startles the blood, and every visage blanches. 24 ADELE AUS DER OHE II Half-sleeps the wind above a swirling pool That holds the trembling shadow of the trees ; Where waves too wildly rush to freeze Though all the air is cool ; And hear, oh hear, while musically call With nearer tinkling sounds, or distant roar, Voices of fall on fall ; And now a swelling blast, that dies ; and now— no more, no more. (CHOPIN) I Ah, what celestial art ! And can sweet thoughts become pure tone and float. ADELE AUS DEE OHE 25 All music, into the tranced mind and heart ! Her hand scarce stirs the singing, wiry metal— Hear from the wild-rose fall each perfect petal ! II And can we have, on earth, of heaven the whole ! Heard thoughts— the soul of inexpressible thought ; Roses of sound That strew melodious leaves upon the silent ground ; And music that is music's very soul, Without one touch of earth,— Too tender, even, for sorrow, and too bright for mirth ! MUSIC AND FRIENDSHIP THRICE is sweet music sweet when every word And lovely tone by kindred hearts are heard ; So when I hear true music, Heaven send, To share that heavenly joy, one dear, dear friend! THE STAIRWAY BY this stairway narrow, steep, Thou Shalt climb from song to sleep ; From sleep to dream and song once more ;— Sleep well, sweet friend, sleep well, dream deep ! 27 THE VIOLIN (FROM "THE NEW DAY") BEFORE the listening world behold him stand ; The warm air trembles with his passionate play ; Their cheers shower round him like the ocean spray Round one who waits upon the stormy strand. Their smiles, sighs, tears all are at his command ; And now they hear the trump of judgment-day, And now one silver note to heaven doth stray And fluttering fall upon the golden sand. 28 THE VIOLIN 29 But like the murmur of the distant sea Their loud applause, and far off, faint, and weak Sounds his own music to him, wild and free— Far from the soul of music that doth speak In wordless wail and lyric ecstasy From that good viol pressed against his cheek. HANDEL'S LARGO WHEN the great organs, answering each to each, Joined with the violin's celestial speech. Then did it seem that all the heavenly host Gave praise to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost : We saw the archangels through the ether wing- ing ; We heard their souls go forth in solemn singing ; " Praise, praise to God," they sang, " through endless days; HANDEL'S LARGO 31 Praise to the Eternal One, and nought but praise ; " And as they sang the spirits of the dying Were upward borne from lips that ceased their sighing ; And dying was not death, but deeper living— Living, and prayer, and praising and thanks- giving ! PADEREWSKI IF songs were perfume, color, wild desire ; If poet's words were fire That burned to blood in purple-pulsing veins ; If with a bird-like thrill the moments throbbed to hours ; If summer's rains Turned drop by drop to shy, sweet, maiden flowers ; If God made flowers with light and music in them. And saddened hearts could win them ; 32 PADEREWSKI 33 If loosened petals touched the ground With a caressing sound ; If love's eyes uttered word No listening lover e'er before had heard ; If silent thoughts spake with a bugle's voice ; If flame passed into song and cried, "Rejoice ! Rejoice ! " If words could picture life's, hope's, heaven's eclipse When the last kiss has fallen on dying eyes and lips; If all of mortal woe Struck on one heart with breathless blow on blow ; If melody were tears, and tears were starry gleams That shone in evening's amethystine dreams ; 34 PADEREWSKI Ah, yes, if notes were stars, each star a different hue. Trembling to earth in dew ; Or if the boreal pulsings, rose and white, Made a majestic music in the night ; If all the orbs lost in the light of day In the deep, silent blue began their harps to play ; And when in frightening skies the lightnings flashed And storm-clouds crashed. If every stroke of light and sound were but excess of beauty ; If human syllables could quick refashion That fierce electric passion ; If other art could match (as were the poet's duty) The grieving, and the rapture, and the thunder PADEREWSKI 35 Of that keen hour of wonder,— That light as if of heaven, that blackness as of hell,- How the great master played then might I dare to tell. II How the great master played ! And was it he Or some disbodied spirit which had rushed From silence into singing ; and had crushed Into one startled hour a lifers felicity, And highest bliss of knowledge — that all life, grief, wrong, Turn at the last to beauty and to song ! THE 'CELLO WHEN last I heard the trembling 'cello play, In every face I saw sad memories That from dark, secret chambers where they lay Rose and looked forth from melancholy eyes. So every mournful thought found there a tone To match despondence ; sorrow knew its mate ; 111 fortune sighed, and mute despair made moan; And one deep chord gave answer, " Late,— too late!" 36 THE 'CELLO 37 Then ceased the quivering strain, and swift returned Unto its depths the secret of each heart ; Each face took on its mask, where lately burned A spirit charmed to sight by music's art ; But unto one who caught that inner flame No face of all can ever seem the same. A MEMORY OF RUBINSTEIN HE of the ocean is, its thunderous waves Echo his music ; while far down the shore Mad laughter hurries— a white, blowing spume. I hear again in memory that wild storm ; The winds of heaven go rushing round the world. And broods above the rage one sphinx-like face. "THE PATHETIC SYMPHONY" (TSCHAIKOVSKY) WHEN the last movement fell, I thought : Ah me! Death this Indeed; but still the music poured On and still on. Oh, deathlier it grew And then, at last, my beating heart stood still,— Beyond all natural grief the music passing, Beyond all tragedy, or last farewell. Then, on that fatal tide, dismayed I felt This living soul, my own, without one tear. Slowly, irrevocably, and alone, Enter the ultimate silence and the dark. AN HOUR IN A STUDIO (SINGING OF THE PLAINSMEN) EACH picture was a painted memory Of the far plains he loved, and of their life, Weird, mystical, dark, inarticulate,— And cities hidden high against the blue, Whose sky-hung steps one Indian could guard. The enchanted Mesa there its fated wall Lifted, and all its story lived again ; How, in the happy planting time, the strong Went down to push the seeds into the sand, Leaving the old and sick. Then reeled the world 40 AN HOUR IN A STUDIO 41 And toppled to the plain the perilous path. Death dimbed another way to them who stayed. He showed us pictured thirst, a dreadful sight ; And many tales he told that might have come,— Brought by some planet- wanderer,— fresh from Mars, Or from the silver deserts of the moon. But I remember better than all else One night he told of in that land of fright,— The love-songs swarthy men sang to their herds On the high plains to keep the beasts in heart ; Piercing the silence one keen tenor voice Singing " Ai nostri monti " clear and high : Instead of stakes and fences round about They circled them with music in the night. THE UNKNOWN SINGER ONE singer in the oratorio, Her only did I see, nor can forget ; Nor knew her name, nor have I seen her more. Nor could I in the chorus find her voice. Her swaying, gracious form, her face alight As with an inner flame of melody— These seized me ; seemed the white embodiment Of all the angelic voices richly poured In a great rushing and harmonious flood. That human form, all beautiful and bright, 42 THE UNKNOWN SINGER 43 Lived the pure, conscious, glorious instrument Wherethrough the master made his message felt- Conscious, but with no shallow vanity, A breathing image of a thought in sound, A living statue, symbol of a tone. That which she sang she was ; and, unaware, Made music visible not less than heard. THE VOICE RICH is the music of sweet instruments,— The separate harp, cornet, oboe, and flute. The deep-souled viola, the 'cello grave, The many-mooded, singing violin. The Infinite, triumphing, ivoried clavier; And when, with art mysterious, some god Thrills into one the lone and various tones, Then is no hiding passion of the heart. No sigh of evening winds, no breath of dawn. No hope or hate of man that is not told. 44 THE VOICE 45 But when a human voice leaps from that surge 'T is as a flower that bursts from th' trembling earth; Something more wonderful assails the soul, As, with exultant cries, up-curving, swift. The shrill Walkiire clamor against the sky, Or pale Briinhilde moans her bitter fate. WAGNER THIS is the eternal mystery of art : He told the secretest secret .of his heart,- How many mortals, with quick-flaming brow, Whispered, lo, this am I,— and that art thou. 46 " MOTHER OF HEROES " SARAH BLAKE SHAW MOTHER of heroes, she,— of them who gave Their lives to lift the lowly, free the slave. Her, through long years, two master passions bound : Love of our free land ; and of all sweet sound. ' T was praising her to praise this land of grace ; And when I think on music— lo, her face! 47 BEETHOVEN (VIENNA-1900) I CAME to a great city. Palaces Rose glittering, mile on mile. Here dwells the King, The Emperor and King ; here lived, here ruled How many mountainous far-looming fames ! Here is the crown of shadowy Charlemagne. What housing of what glorious dignities ! Yet in a narrow street, unfrequented, No palace near— one name upon a wall. And all these majesties seem small and shrunk ; 48 BEETHOVEN 49 For here unto the bitter end abode He who from pain wrought noble joy for men, He who from silence gave the world to song ; For in his mind an awful music rose As when, in darkness of the under-seas, Currents tremendous over currents pour. He heard the soundless tone, its voice he was. And he of vast humanity the voice, And his the empire of the human soul. THE ANGER OF BEETHOVEN THIS night the enchanting musicians ren- dered a trio of Beethoven,— Light and lovely, or solemn, as in a Tuscan tower The walls with gracious tapestries gleam, and the deep-cut windows Give on landscapes gigantic, framing the four- square world,— When sudden the music turned to anger, as nature's murmur Sometimes to anger turns, speaking, in voice infuriate, 50 THE ANGER OF BEETHOVEN 51 Cruel, quick, implacable ; inhuman, savage, re- sistless,— And I thought of that sensitive spirit flinging back in scorn tempestuous. And in art supreme, immortal, the infamous arrows of fortune. MACDOWELL REJOICE ! Rejoice ! The New World hath a voice ; A voice of tragedy and mirth, Sounding clear through all the earth ; A voice of music, tender and sublime, Kin to the master-music of all time. Here ye, and know,— While the chords throb with poignant pause and flow,— Of the New World the mystic, lyric heart, 52 MACDOWELL 53 Breathed in undaunted art: Her pomp of days, her ghttering nights ; The rich surprise And miracle of iridescent skies ; Her lovely lowlands and imperial heights ; Her glooms and gladness ; Her oceans thundering on a thousand shores ; Her wild-wood madness ; Her streams adream with memory that deplores The red inhabitants evanished and undone That follow, follow to far lands beyond the set- ting sun. And echoes one may hear of ancient lores From the Old World's well-loved shores,— Primal loves, and quenchless hates ; Striving lives, and conquering fates ; 54 ilACDOWELL Elves innocently antic Or \^ild-eyed, frantic ; Shadow-heroes, passionate, gigantic,— Sons and daughters of the prime That moved the mighty bards to noble rhyme. Rejoice ! Rejoice ! The New World hath new music — and a voice ! A MOOD WORDS praising music, what are they but leaves Whirled round the fountain by the wind that grieves. Frail human speech falls idly as the snow On the red lava's flow, — Still pours the music on, all passion and flame ; As music passes, that which music came,— Ever the same, with message never the same. 55 MUSIC IN SOLITUDE IN this valley far and lonely Birds sang only, And the brook, And the rain upon the leaves ; And all night long beneath the eaves (While with soft breathings slept the housed cattle) The hived bees Made music like the murmuring seas ; From lichened wall, from many a leafy nook, 56 MUSIC IN SOLITUDE 57 The chipmunk sounded shrill his tiny rattle ; Through the warm day boomed low the droning flies, And the great mountains shook With the organs of the skies. Dear these songs unto my heart ; But the spirit longs for art, Longs for music that is born Of the human soul forlorn. Or the beating heart of pleasure. Thou, sweet girl, didst bring this boon Without stint or measure ! Many a tune Prom the masters of all time In my waiting heart made rhyme. 58 MUSIC IN SOLITUDE As the rain on parched meadows. As cool shadows Falling from the summer sky, As loved memories die, But live again when a well-tuned voice Makes with old joy the grieved heart rejoice. So came once more with thy clear touch The melodies I love— Ah, not too much. But all earth's natural songs far, far above ! For they are nature felt, and living, And human, and impassioned ; And they full well are fashioned To bring to sound and sense the eternal striving. The inner soul of the inexpressive world, The meaning furled MUSIC IN SOLITUDE 59 Deep at the heart of all, The thought that mortals name divine, Whereof all beauty is the sign. That comes— ah, surely comes— at music's solemn call. MUSIC AT TWILIGHT OH, give me music in the twilight hour ! Then, skilled musician! thou of the magic power. Summon the souls of masters long since gone Who through thine art live on ! As the day dies I would once more respire The passion of that spirit whose keen fire Flashes and flames in yearning and unrest And never-ending quest. MUSIC AT TWILIGHT 61 Or listen to the quick, electric tones, Or moods of majesty, of him who owns The secret of the thrill that shakes the earth And moves the stars in mirth. And I would walk the shore of sound with him Whose voice was as the voice of cherubim: Musician most authentic and sublime Of all the sons of time. Bring their deep joys, the breath of solitudes Dear dreams and longings, and high, hero moods; Aye, bring me their melodious despairs To die in twilight airs. 62 MTSIC AT TWILIGHT For, given a rhythmic voice, re-uttered so. Sorrow itself is lost in the large flow Of nature ; and of life is made such part As doth enrich the heart ; And on the tide of music, to my soul Shall enter beaut>'*s solace,— life be whole. Not broken by chords discordant, but most sweet. In sequent tones complete. n Great is the true interpreter, for like No other art, t^vo sentient souls must strike The spark of music that in blackness lies 'Mid silent harmonies. MTSIC AT TWILIGHT 63 Till, at a cunning touch, the long-lost theme Newly imagined, and new-born in dream. Clothed gloriously in garment of sweet sound Wakes from its darkened swound. So would I ask. Musician ! of thy grace That thou would'st bless and sanctify the place With august harmonies, well-loved of old ;— But from thy manifold Miraculous memory fail not of thine own Imaginings enraptured of pure tone. That I may nearer draw to music's shrine, And mystery di\'ine. MUSIC IN MOONLIGHT WAS ever music lovelier than to-night ! 'T was Schumann's Song of Moonlight ; o'er the vale The new moon lingered near the western hills ; The hearth-fire glimmered low ; but melting tones Blotted all else from memory and thought, And all the world was music. Wondrous hour ! Then sank anew into our tranced hearts 64 MUSIC IN MOONLIGHT 65 One secret and deep lesson of sweet sound— The loveliness that from unloveliness Out-springs, flooding the soul with poignant joy, As the harmonious chords to harsh succeed, And the rapt spirit climbs through pain to bliss : Eternal question, answer infinite ; As day to night replies ; as light to shade ; As summer to rough winter ; death to life,— Death not a closing, but an opening door; A deepened life? a prophecy fulfilled. Not in the very present comes reply But in the flow of time. Should the song cease Too soon ; ere yet the rooted answer blooms, Lo, what a pang of loss and dissonance ! But time, with the resolving and intended tone Heals all, and makes all beautiful and right. 66 MUSIC IN MOONLIGHT Even so our mortal music-makers frame Their messages melodious to men ; Even so the Eterne his mighty harmonies Fashions, supreme, of life, and fate, and time. JLOFO. MUSIC IN DARKNESS I AT the dim end of day XjL I heard the great musician play : Saw her white hands now slow, now swiftly pass ; Where gleamed the polished wood, as in a glass. The shadow hands repeating every motion. Then did I voyage forth on music's ocean, Visiting many a sad or joyful shore, Where storming breakers roar. Or singing birds made music so intense,— 67 68 MUSIC IN DARKNESS So intimate of happiness or sorrow,— I scarce could courage borrow To hear those strains ; well-nigh I hurried thence To escape the intolerable weight That on my spirit fell when sobbed the music : late, too late, too late. While slow withdrew the light And, on the lyric tide, came in the night. II So grew the dark, enshrouding all the room In a melodious gloom. Her face growing viewless ; line by line That swaying form did momently decline MUSIC IN DARKNESS 69 And was in darkness lost. Then white hands ghostly turned, though still they tost Prom tone to tone ; pauseless and sure as if in perfect light ; With blind, instinctive, most miraculous sight. On, on they sounded in that world of night. Ill Ah, dearest one ! was this thy thought, as mine. As still the music stayed ? So shall the loved ones fade,— Feature by feature, line on lovely line ; For all our love, alas. From twilight into darkness shall they pass ! 70 MUSIC IN DARKNESS We in that dark shall see them never more. But from our spirits they shall not be banished,- For on and on shall the sweet music pour That was the soul of them, the loved, the van- ished ; And we, who listen, shall not lose them quite In that mysterious night." OCT 9 1909 0G\ 10 »906 5 . , ' ' • J* ^ ■■'1 if"