To Music

Nothing that is shall perish utterly,
But perish only to revive again
In other forms, as clouds restore in rain
The exhalations of the land and sea.
Men build their houses from the masonry
Of ruined tombs; the passion and the pain
Of hearts, that long have ceased to beat, remain
To throb in hearts that are, or are to be.
So from old chronicles, where sleep in dust
Names that once filled the world with trumpet tones,
I build this verse; and flowers of song have thrust
Their roots among the loose disjointed stones,
Which to this end I fashion as I must.
Quickened are they that touch the Prophet's bones.

Speak to us, Music, for the discord jars; 
The world's unwisdom brings or threatens Death. 
Speak, and redeem this misery of breath 
With that which keeps the stars 
Each to her point in the eternal wheel 
That all clear skies reveal. 

Speak to us; lift the nightmare from us; sing. 
The screams of chaos make the daylight mad. 
Where are the dew-drenched mornings that we had 
When the lithe lark took wing? 
Where the still summers, when more golden time 
Spoke to us, from the lime? 

Though these be gone, yet, still, Thy various voice 
May help assuage the pangs of our distress, 
May hush the yelling where the fiends rejoice, 
Quiet the sleepless, making sorrow less. 
Speak, therefore, Music; speak. 
Calm our despair ; bring courage to the weak. 

Ah, lovely Friend, bring wisdom to the strong, 
Before a senseless strength has all destroyed. 
Be sunlight on the night of brooding wrong. 
Be form upon the chaos of the void. 
Be Music ; be Thyself; a prompting given 
Of Peace, of Beauty waiting, and sin shriven.