A thousand lamps were lit—I saw them not— Nor all the thousands round me like a sea, Life, Death and Time, and all things were forgot; I only thought of thee! Meanwhile the music rose sublime and strong, But sunk beneath thy voice which rose alone, Above its crumbled fragments to thy throne, Above the clouds of Song. Henceforth let Music seal her lips, and be The silent Ministrant of Poesy; For not the delicate reed that Pan did play To partial Midas at the match of old, Nor yet Apollo’s lyre, with chords of gold, That more than won the crown he lost that day; Nor even the Orphean lute, that half set free— Oh why not all?—the lost Eurydice— Were fit to join with thee; Much less our instruments of meaner sound, That track thee slowly o’er enchanted ground, Unfit to lift the train thy music leaves, Or glean around its sheaves! I strive to disentangle in my mind Thy many-knotted threads of softest song, Whose memory haunts me like a voiceless wind, Whose silence does it wrong. No single tone thereof, no perfect sound Lingers, but dim remembrance of the whole; A sound which was a Soul, The Soul of sound diffused an atmosphere around! So soft, so sweet, so mellow, rich and deep, So like a heavenly soul’s ambrosial breath, It would not wake, but only deepen Sleep Into diviner Death! Softer and sweeter than the jealous flute, Whose soft, sweet voice grew harsh before its own, It stole in mockery its every tone, And left it lone and mute; It flowed like liquid pearl through golden cells, It jangled like a string of golden bells, It trembled like a wind in golden strings, It dropped and rolled away in golden rings; Then it divided and became a shout, That Echo chased about, However wild and fleet, Until it trod upon its heels with flying feet! At last it sunk and sunk from deep to deep, Below the thinnest word, And sunk till naught was heard, But charméd Silence sighing in its sleep!