THERE is living with the singer,
All too grand for mortal tongue,
An ideal throb of music
That his voice has never sung.
All the major strain of gladness,
And the minor undertone,
With its rhythm of joy or sadness,
Liveth in his heart alone.
And the music haunts the singer,
Tho 'tis far beyond his art,
Filling all his life with yearning,
Filling with unrest his heart.
Ah, he tries to grasp the phantom,
With an eager heart and brain!
But he hears it still before him,
And his efforts are in vain.
Ah, that thrilling chord of music,
With its passionate refrain,
Living ever in the spirit,
Dwelling ever in the brain!
For those chords, angelic, real,
He is reaching evermore,
But alas, the sweet ideal,
Lingers always, just before.
Like some note from land elysian,
Some fair mirage, raised in air,
Ever in the poet's vision
Soundeth chorals passing fair.
But these wondrous strains of music
Never crystallize in speech,
For the thrilling sweet ideal
Lingers just beyond his reach.
Ah, that melody, and metre,
That the world should never hear
Than all earthly music sweeter,
Ravishing the singer's ear!
And he reaches for the real
Till the tomb affords him rest.
But he leaves the fond ideal
Unaccomplished, unexpressed.