TCHAIKOVSKY: FIFTH SYMPHONY
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,
O breast whose sorrows overflowed the world!