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 houséd cattle) The hivéd bees Made music like the murmuring seas; From lichened wall, from many a leafy nook, 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 From the masters of all time In my waiting heart made rhyme. As the rain on parchéd meadows. As cool shadows Falling from the summer sky, As loved memories die, But live again when a well-tunéd voice Makes with old joy the grievéd 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 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.