Hounds!

There is music on disc and on wireless, Band-music, dance-tunes for the tireless, Sweet music from day unto day; But the music a man will remember Shakes down the last leaves of November, And speeds the wild geese in December, And greets the first oak-bud in May. What string with such beauty can tremble? What bugle such raptures assemble? What trumpet can sound such a call? Is there ever a melody nearer The quick-beating heart of the hearer? Is there ever a tune that is dearer As it chooses a dance for us all? No song is so sweet in the setting, No lilt so forbids all forgetting Or lingers so long by the way; When the shadows of night gather o’er us, And the scarlet has faded before us, The ring of that ravishing chorus Dies not with the death of the day.