(_For the Grave of Coleridge-Taylor_)
Sleep, crowned with fame; fearless of change or time.
Sleep, like remembered music in the soul,
Silent, immortal; while our discords climb
To that great chord which shall resolve the whole.
Silent with Mozart on that solemn shore;
Secure where neither waves nor hearts can break;
Sleep--till the Master of the World, once more,
Touch the remembered strings, and bid thee wake....
Touch the remembered strings, and bid thee wake.