A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass

Listening

          'T is you that are the music, not your song.
           The song is but a door which, opening wide,
           Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,
          Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strong
          Sings but of you.  Throughout your whole life long
           Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
           This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
          Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
           The song of earth has many different chords;
          Ocean has many moods and many tones
           Yet always ocean.  In the damp Spring woods
          The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones
           Autumn alone can ripen.  So is this
           One music with a thousand cadences.