Living hurts with unavailingness,
Till painting seems a mirror of black glass
Where real life goes past me secretly.
See, our gold boy has floated a saffron dream
Inside the lid of the black clavichord.
Open the windows, Paris, and let live darkness
Deepen stillness with touches on our throats.
Light one far lamp, for that is music-light.

My strings and Paris' voice and the slim viols
Slide through each other's folds, touch mutually
And straightway close in lambent mild surprise.
Some day, I think, these instruments will muse
To fuse voices no more, but flow alone;
And motets will be made for their thin sakes,
Wherein opposing voices will be found
Revealing slighted values of half known tones;
Till gamba and flute and clavichord together
Shall meet strange depths of larger motet shapes.

We must have words, or else the shapeless chords
Are unrelated, vague, and answer nought;
Voices' thrill turns music into worship.
Nay, pipe and string must ever go beneath.