The ornaments on the mantel, row on row,
Seem touched with a melancholy of long ago—
What is it the music dreams, but cannot utter?
Schumann—we know, we know.
Ah George, what shall be said to you who feel it—
All the half-hope and passion unexpressed
When twilight heaves more gently in the breast!
Ah George, but you, when words would fain reveal it,
Smile—and divine the rest.
O wrap me in Beethoven’s storm and thunder!