A song.it reads:
I hear a distant music, and sing
If it seems like I speak from a distance;
To some the song is perhaps inside
Or living like fire in another person;
Each would seem to have his reason
To sing, or at least to shout or moan
I do not pretend to understand or know
Whether this is right or wrong withal
We reserve then our judgment
Saving it like fuel or purest gold
For a winter less warm and a season
Of less money than we have.
I hear this distant music, sometimes
On a soundless wind it breathes
I mean; It has not that sort of sound
If thought has sound is what I mean;
Do others hear it in a dark, rich tone?
I cannot of this claim to begin to know
But knowledge is not thus uncertain
Just that there are uncertain things
Some things have of them certainty
As there is day and night in turn
As hot and cold and woman and man
There is fact and mystery.
The music is not tame, but moves
As if record turned upon itself
Without an end or a beginning
But everlong and every color
Teasing a melody from it must be
A task others labor over word and verse
To achieve; as this I also do not know
But the symbol, I say, I know it
It is not with every tambre and hue
Either rainbow or cacophony
Forgetting the connected sense
And its moral indignation.
It is not then, an amoral thing
This music, I think I said before
But our care it cares not for
Taking and breaking it all in two
In other wor(l)ds this matters not
I wonder if others realize this?
We strive to rise above the din
Of our own thoughts noisome haze
Of the days; but cannot and so bring
To the feet of God every broken dream
Which are the stars, the poet says
You tread beneath your feet.