For True Music
Making this music, let it be for horns
Twisted and blackened with a brittle mold,
For strings all snapping. Let a singer old
Tatter these measures in a breast of thorns.
Speak as you must, and let there be no note
Ringing with sedulous felicity.
The movement of your soul could never be
A swan with summer lightning on its throat.
Since you are ridden in this fatuous way
To cull your spirit, as with a gilded shell,
And range vagaries in a bland array,—
Open, for once, the cavern in the ground
Crusting your music's core: that crooked bell.
Unsnarl the matted rope, and let it pound.