If there may rise, high up in halls of heaven,
Sweet echoes of our earthly lives, re-lived,
Yet not as here they lived, that there may rise
From earthly music, echoes just as real.
At least, my Haydn’s music throbs with life.
The sounds are sentient as his own dear soul;
They make me thrill, as if a power should come,
And touch, with hands below these fleshly robes,
And clasp, as loving spirits do, the spirit.
They woo me as a god might, owning heaven.