Lost Music

By George Sterling

Sweet, thou dost take this heart in tender hands
    And crush therefrom a music ceaselessly;
    For when 'tis night those chords acknowledge thee,
And in the day thy deathless memory stands
Like some strange flower found 'mid desert sands.
    O wild, wan blossom! Let thy fragrance be
    A rapture and a mystery to me,
Who reach thee from insufferable lands.

O fragile music, lost like winds that die!
    O lone, last flower, mute and fountainless,
        What strains shall tell my sorrow and thy grace?
Thou passest as a moon adown the sky—
    Thou who hast drained the world of loveliness
And set the blinding glory in thy face!

Written in Sag Harbor.

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