WHY do great sounds forsake me, heroic wings
Fail here, upon the margin of that place
I seek? All this grave splendor impotent
As unsubstantial cloud to haven me —
These fiery suns, these far pale moons of sound,
The serene piping of the silver flute
And the horn’s gold uncoiled upon the night,
Bright rain of notes shaking their light above me,
All — all — end but in broken beauty here,
Leaving my question still upon the air,
Leaving the pain still locked about my heart.
There is a music that can succor me,
Freed from my body, struck from the string of earth —
How slight the touch, how swift and far the reach!
Your breath upon my cheek, hand on my throat —
Chords as of light with light, of space with space,
Primitive rhythms returning on themselves;
These bear to harbor, these transport me far
Within that luminous region where still joy
Unbinds the inner sense until I see
Our mortal rapture and the stars’ high burning
Shine as one glory on the enfolding night,
And my bright fraction of being finds its peace.