Now where the candles hke two praying angels.
Slim, white, and golden aureoled, keep back
The endless leagues of night.
She in a luminous ring
Sits singing.

Her little head set slantwise, and the hair
In short soft lines falling about her face,
Her body lightly swaying.
Her fingers touching the keys
Very deftly.

The melody from out the ring of light
Is rising pure and sufficient, and the listeners
Thrill, crouched in darkness.
Yet are their hearts within them
Sad,—oh sad,!

For they feel their world to be nought but broken pieces.
Evil or good, 'tis nought but fragments of things;
And this strain of music that rises
Triumphant into the night.
Puts them to shame.

Not for perfection they long, for that is death ;—
There is music beyond this strain, and beyond for ever,
Yet without harmony none,
Neither strength nor completeness.
Nor any rest.

And they who long for harmony, find a world
Of crazed and baffling discords, and are sad,—
Sad though the music rises
Triumphant, sure of itself.
Into the night.