  My heart cried out in wonder: Can it be, The form, from which this thrilling passion flows On tides of beauty and eternal tone Audibly now before the very sense Of thronging thousands, somewhere in the clay Of Russia lies, with folded hands—relapsed Into the Formless? And my mind replied: The longing that so labors for release Not wholly in that transient form was trapped Wherein we perish miserably here— But has escaped into the form supreme, A deathless body; and now walks abroad Among the generations of mankind, Trailing the robes of the immortal woe. And still that music poured. O sacred heart And secret, well-head of those streams of song— Are you content! How is it with you now, |
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