The years sped onward. He who forever sought The unseeable light beyond the western skies Made mighty music: in his work he wrought All that he knew, all that man might surmise, Until a vast and intricate design Awoke and spoke -- a living, new-born thing. He watched it grow in beauty, line on line, And yielded it his only worshipping. At last she saw why he had gone his way -- His endless quest; even, she could rejoice. For like a whispering wind at close of day Faintly she heard the echo of her voice. Not one but every kind of song she found In that great diapason of sweet sound. |