What may be the music
Wandering from the chords?
Does some air Italian,
Scarcely need of words?
Is the strain of sadness,
When the spirit’s wings
Deepen with the shadows
Of remembered things?
Are the notes more mirthful,
Waking in the heart
All those pleasant fancies,
Which so soon depart?
Tell me, lovely ladye,
Who art leaning there,
In the golden shadow
Of thy golden hair—
Of what art thou singing?
Yet in vain I ask;
Many moods doth music
Bring its graceful task.
Strange must be the sorrow,
Dark must be the hour,
Which would not, bright ladye,
Own thy harp and power.