Music, in a lullaby
Sung to a cradled, sleeping child,
Though insubstantial as a sigh,
As orisons, or dreams compiled,
Rests not on air, yet it may lie
In memory in a slumber mild.
Poetry, in whispers soft
Passing from one heart to a lover,
To heaven lightly lifts aloft
Like prayer, though a moment hover
‘Round her soul, as oceans waft
Beneath the moonlight’s silver cover.
Memory, when youth is spent,
Softens the harsher tones of life,
Fresh as the spirit may invent
New poems to mend some antique strife,
Or charm with stories affluent
A grandchild, or beloved wife.
Music, in an elegy
Sung for a loved and parted soul,
With power moves confusedly:
Though grieved, sweet memories console,
Though loved, still lost: the poetry
Of life and all that life may dole.
Beauty whispers through it all,
Singing and stirring; you too shall choose
To follow or decline her call,
This lovely, unseen, supernal muse,
Who beckons us beyond the pall
And intimates of what ensues.
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