SONNET.
ADDRESSED TO A LADY SINGING, AND WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF HER MUSIC BOOK.
It hath been said that music is a dream,A soft creation and a witcheryMade for earth’s happier climes, where peacefullyMen’s thoughts go by as goes a pleasant stream:—It hath been said too, that the favoredAnd bright ones who so sing us into bliss,And witch out from our souls unquietness,And place a Sabbath softness in its stead—It hath been said that these not mortal be,But are of the same nature with the sky—Ethereal, volatile, as clouds that playAbout the sinking sun at shut of day:—But sure they lie—for this soft hand in mine,And this soft strain I hear—why, both are thine!*
It hath been said that music is a dream,A soft creation and a witcheryMade for earth’s happier climes, where peacefullyMen’s thoughts go by as goes a pleasant stream:—It hath been said too, that the favoredAnd bright ones who so sing us into bliss,And witch out from our souls unquietness,And place a Sabbath softness in its stead—It hath been said that these not mortal be,But are of the same nature with the sky—Ethereal, volatile, as clouds that playAbout the sinking sun at shut of day:—But sure they lie—for this soft hand in mine,And this soft strain I hear—why, both are thine!*
It hath been said that music is a dream,A soft creation and a witcheryMade for earth’s happier climes, where peacefullyMen’s thoughts go by as goes a pleasant stream:—It hath been said too, that the favoredAnd bright ones who so sing us into bliss,And witch out from our souls unquietness,And place a Sabbath softness in its stead—It hath been said that these not mortal be,But are of the same nature with the sky—Ethereal, volatile, as clouds that playAbout the sinking sun at shut of day:—But sure they lie—for this soft hand in mine,And this soft strain I hear—why, both are thine!*
It hath been said that music is a dream,
A soft creation and a witchery
Made for earth’s happier climes, where peacefully
Men’s thoughts go by as goes a pleasant stream:—
It hath been said too, that the favored
And bright ones who so sing us into bliss,
And witch out from our souls unquietness,
And place a Sabbath softness in its stead—
It hath been said that these not mortal be,
But are of the same nature with the sky—
Ethereal, volatile, as clouds that play
About the sinking sun at shut of day:—
But sure they lie—for this soft hand in mine,
And this soft strain I hear—why, both are thine!
*