The Harmony of morning,
and a thrush's throat among the sleep deserted boughs,
Expiring mists that murmur all the day of a clear dusk, with music at the close;
Night madrigal and round: there is no word melodious as those.
Rage of the viol whose deep and shady room is sounded to a tempest by the strings;
Sweet keys depressed, swift rise upon a note, whence all the narrow soul of music hangs;
The reed, and horns agreeing: Words in the wake of these are scrannel gongs.
In them another music, half of sound and half of something taciturn between;
In them another ringing, ringing, not for ears, Not loud;
But in the chambers of a brain are bells that clap an answer when the words move orderly,
With truth among the train, When the words move, but in the chambers of a brain are bells
that clap an answer When the words move,
When the words move orderly, with truth among the train.