It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.
The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.
I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.
Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.
For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.
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