The musician lets the music pass;
he lets it fade, he lets it fall;
it lingers not in fact but thought;
he kills it to remember it.
Each note is laid into the grave
and only then is music felt;
its body buried, its spirit haunts;
its murder creates memory;
its death has set it free.
They spring up, some wildflowers, some garden-grown
(but not less lovely for being tended);
some are time-outlasting clay,
some are cracked and must be mended.
Some remain enduring friends,
some foes forever to be reviled;
some are friends transformed to foes,
some are enemies reconciled.
Some are spirits born of love,
like mothers revered as shining saints;
some ghosts, long dead, that haunt the soul;
some shades of life a sleepless fancy paints.
All are sifted like the dust
that covers cities over
and transforms mighty temples proud
into hills of earth and clover.