And woke a trouble in my breast—
A joyful pain more sweet than rest.
Like as the voice of plaining strings
When magic hands the music brings
Out of the viols’ soul in sound
That hath a power when speech is bound,
To lift the whirlwind and the wail
Of passion’s tempest, and the veil
Of dumb desires and hopes that cry,
Until the strong winds sinking die,