MUSIC

THEODORE DREISER

Music, how subtle!

Like a liar, thou liest, and like truth, upliftest!

Yea, as one broken-hearted, thou speakest of the unattainable.

There is in thee a sway and sweep drawn from the eternity of motion.

From the creator of flowers hast thou inherited colour,

From the spheres a voice,

From all outer certainty, meaning.

A miser, thou hast garnered the moonlight,

And like one who prizes gold

Hast reaped of the morning sky.

Flower breaths,

Wild winds,

And the scenes thereof—

Lo! these are thy treasures.

Of joy thou art a spun thread,

Of sorrow a dark chain;

Of desire, yea, thou art the meaning.

All that was echoes within thee,

All that is not thou art;

Of all that will be

Thou art the anticipation.

A hope thou art, and a fear;

A self-abandonment, and a recovery.

Even of the infinite is thy strain,

All harmony incarnate.

With flesh weak,

With spirit strong,

With all life fleeting—

Music! Music! Music!