O HARK what the symphony saith,
Nothing is sweet as a death
Of music vague on the breath
That a far, dim landscape is sighing; The heavy night is drunken,
Our heart that with living is shrunken
In effortless peace is sunken,
And languorously dying. Between the cloud and the tide,
Under the moon let us glide,
My soul flees the world to hide
In thine eyes where languor is lying. And I see thine eyeballs swoon,
When the flute weds the bassoon,
As though to a ray of the moon
Two ghostly flowers were replying. O list what the symphony saith,
Nothing is sweet as the death
Of lip to lip in the breath
Of music vaguely sighing.