IN this valley far and lonely
Birds sang only,
And the brook,
And the rain upon the leaves;
And all night long beneath the eaves
(While with soft breathings slept the houséd cattle)
The hivéd bees
Made music like the murmuring seas;
From lichened wall, from many a leafy nook,
The chipmunk sounded shrill his tiny rattle;
Through the warm day boomed low the droning flies,
And the great mountains shook
With the organs of the skies.

Dear these songs unto my heart;
But the spirit longs for art,
Longs for music that is born
Of the human soul forlorn,
Or the beating heart of pleasure.
Thou, sweet girl, didst bring this boon
Without stint or measure!
Many a tune
From the masters of all time
In my waiting heart made rhyme.

As the rain on parchéd meadows.
As cool shadows
Falling from the summer sky,
As loved memories die,
But live again when a well-tunéd voice
Makes with old joy the grievéd heart rejoice,
So came once more with thy clear touch
The melodies I love —
Ah, not too much,
But all earth's natural songs far, far above!
For they are nature felt, and living,
And human, and impassioned;
And they full well are fashioned
To bring to sound and sense the eternal striving,
The inner soul of the inexpressive world,
The meaning furled
Deep at the heart of all,
The thought that mortals name divine,
Whereof all beauty is the sign,
That comes —ah, surely comes —at music's solemn call.