Such space there is, such endless breadth of time
Between me and my world of yesterday,
I half forget what sounds these be that stray
About my chamber, and grow and fall and climb.
Listen!—that sweet reiterated chime,
Doth it not mark some body changed to clay?
That last great chord, some anguish far away?
Hark! harmony ever now and faultless rhyme.
O Soul of mine, among these lutes and lyres,
These reeds, these golden pipes, and quivering strings,
Thou knowest now that in the old, old years
We who knew only one of all desires
Came often even to music’s furthest springs—
To pass, because their waters gleamed like tears.
