Tangle some notes beneath the prisoner’s bars,
Some simple music he may recognise;
He is not querulous, that it haply jars,
Nor twists its turns to meanings shrewdly-wise;
His heart shall leap aloft, and shout “’tis mine;”
Sorrow and hope, repentance, love, joy, tears,
Shall hail that melody’s unforgotten chime:
What matter that the crowd without the walls
Are jocund to the music of its mirth?
That the voluptuous dance, through lordly halls,
Sweeps by the eyes that sparkle to its birth?
One dreams to it, while one dances, one is sad.
Omnipotent music thou mak’st all men mad.