Music, thou Queen of Heaven, care-charming spell, That strik’st a stillness into hell ; Thou that tam’st tigers, and fierce storms that rise, With thy soul-melting lullabies ; Fall down, down, down from those thy chiming spheres, To charm our souls, as thou enchant’st our ears.
Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps: silence of paintings. You language where all language ends. You time standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.
Feelings for whom? O you the transformation of feelings into what?–: into audible landscape. You stranger: music. You heart-space grown out of us. The deepest space in us, which, rising above us, forces its way out,– holy departure: when the innermost point in us stands outside, as the most practiced distance, as the other side of the air: pure, boundless, no longer habitable.
Begin to charm, and, as thou strok’st mine ears With thy enchantment, melt me into tears. Then let thy active hand scud o’er thy lyre, And make my spirits frantic with the fire. That done, sink down into a silvery strain, And make me smooth as balm and oil again.