The lights go low, the organ swells,
And pours its rhythm everywhere--
Now thunder, now the ring of bells,
Sounding at twilight o’er the dells,
Now but a whisper in the air.
The whisper and the thunder loud
Are both reflected on the crowd.
The pictures come, and pass away,
As morn departs or evening stills.
Ambition fights its fevered fray.
The wrong and right have each their day.
Love walks with love upon the hills
Life’s long procession there appears.
And hurries onward thru the years.
The music dies. The crowds depart.
Each goes his way, pursues his aim;
But something in the thing of art
Has left a mark upon his heart.
Somehow the world is not the same.
The music and the scenes so fair
Have left their after-imagine there.