My body lives. And music, while it sounds,
Does it not move and throb and tell of thought
And waken thought in others?—Then it dies.—
But ah, the music, it has never sinn’d,
No wish has ever known save that of heaven,
And need not linger long here. Yet to eyes
That scan eternity, time cannot be
The measure gauging vital force; nay, nay:
Then heavenly lightning were a weaker thing
Then earthly smoke.—Ah, sister, I have thought,