Hurling on caverns his heart.
Of the summer night, what to communicate, eager?
Perchance the secret of peace.
The lure of the silver to gold, of the pale unto colour,
Of the seen to the real unseen;
Of voices away to the voiceless, of sound unto silence,
Of words to a wordless calm;
Of music doomed unto wandering, still returning,
Ever to heaven and home.
The lure of the beautiful woman through flesh unto spirit,