On A Symphony Of Beethoven

Terrible music, whose strange utterance Seemed like the spell of some dread conscious trance; Motionless misery, impotent despair, With beckoning visions of things dear and fair; Restless desire, sharp poignant agonies; Soft, thrilling, melting, tender memories; Struggle and tempest, and around it all The heavy muffling folds of some black pall Stifling it slowly; a wild wail for life, Sinking in darkness—a short passionate strife With hideous fate, crushing the soul to earth; Sweet snatches of some melancholy mirth; A creeping fear, a shuddering dismay, Like the cold dawning of some fatal day; Dim faces growing pale in distant lands; Departing feet, and slowly severing hands; Voices of love, speaking the words of hate,— The mockery of a blessing come too late; Loveless and hopeless life, with memory,— This curse that music seemed to speak to me.