  All things are wrought of melody, Unheard, yet full of speaking spells; Within the rock, within the tree, A soul of music dwells. A mute symphonic sense that thrills The silent frame of mortal things; Its heart beats in the ancient hills, In every flower sings. To harmony all growth is set— Each seed is but a music mote, From which each plant, each violet, Evolves its purple note. Compact of melody, the rose Woos the soft wind with strain on strain Of crimson; and the lily blows Its white bars to the rain. The trees are pÆans; and the grass One long green fugue beneath the sun— Song is their life; and all shall pass, Shall cease, when song is done. |
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