Hark, sister! hear we not the vesper hymn?
And is it not the hymn that Haydn wrote?
Why not push wide the window? Rob we God,
If, while our praise to Him be passing by,
Some air, made sweeter, tarry here with us?
There, there—it dies away.—Why say “it dies”?—
Because it lived?—Ay, ay, my body here,
Because it moves and throbs and tells of thought
And wakens thought in others, thus you know
My body lives. And music, while it sounds,
Does it not move and throb and tell of thought
And waken thought in others?—Then it dies.—
But ah, the music, it has never sinn’d,
No wish has ever known save that of heaven,
And need not linger long here. Yet to eyes
That scan eternity, time cannot be
The measure gauging vital force; nay, nay:
Then heavenly lightning were a weaker thing
Then earthly smoke.—Ah, sister, I have thought,
If there may rise, high up in halls of heaven,
Sweet echoes of our earthly lives, re-lived,
Yet not as here they lived, that there may rise
From earthly music, echoes just as real.
At least, my Haydn’s music throbs with life.
The sounds are sentient as his own dear soul;
They make me thrill, as if a power should come,
And touch, with hands below these fleshly robes,
And clasp, as loving spirits do, the spirit.
They woo me as a god might, owning heaven.
Why should I not talk thus? Go bid the flowers
Keep back their perfume; then, perchance, may souls,
All sweet with blooming love, keep back sweet words.
I love him.—Shrink not, sister. Hear you must.—
And say not I am weak. Should I not grow
Far weaker, holding in a love so strong?