Beethoven

O Master, if immortals suffer aught Of sadness like to ours, and in like sighs And with like overflow of darkened eyes Disburden them, I know not; but methought, What time to day mine ear the utterance caught Whereby in manifold melodious wise Thy heart's unrestful infelicities Rose like a sea with easeless winds distraught, That thine seemed angel's grieving, as of one Strayed somewhere out of heaven, and uttering Lone moan and alien wail: because he hath Failed to remember the remounting path, And singing, weeping, can but weep and sing Ever, through vasts forgotten of the sun.