So perilously fashion’d, that for them
God’s touch alone hath gentleness enough
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!—
We will not speak of this!
By what strange spell
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,
I dream of music? Something in their hues,
All melting into colour’d harmonies,
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords,
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die