Of which not even the faintest perfume clings.
What would we not surrender overjoyed,
To hear once more the music that is still;
We sweep the strings, but lo! no answering thrill
From shattered harps, that eager hands destroyed,
From souls whom ravishment has smitten dumb.
Oh! for one hour snatched from the throbbing past,
Replete with its embodied ecstasy!
How little would we count Eternity,
How ready be, to know that hour, our last,