The air which thy smooth voice doth break,
Into my soul like lightning flies;
My life retires while thou dost speak,
And thy soft breath its room supplies.
Lost in this pleasing ecstasy,
I join my trembling lips to thine,
And back receive that life from thee
Which I so gladly did resign.
Forbear, Platonic fools! t' inquire
What numbers do the soul compose;
No harmony can life inspire
But that which from these accents flows.
Thomas Stanley.