O paltry jingle to a coinèd note!
Words that ape thought, and thought that soils the soul;
With what a tide of emptiness ye float,
On the heart’s music, ye can ne’er control!
The sieve of words holds not the element’s sense;
The thought is the poor highway to the heart;
How should man’s tongue hold heaven in its pretence?
How should one road contain the city’s mart?
The pipings of a mind, vex’d, half distraught,
Are but as signs, of what their speech should be;
They can but show what happier moments sought;
What gilds the Future’s blank satiety;
’Tis the one only tone that echo gives;
The music dying, death in music lives.