Richly the flutes; and basses that like djinns
Thunder their clumsy threatening, as begins
The oboe’s mystic plaint of sorrows old:—
Are these the symphony? No, it is will
In passion striving to surmount the world,
Growing in sensuous dalliance, sudden whirled
To ecstasies of shivering joy, and still
Marching and mastering, singing mightily,
Consummate when the silence makes it free.