Whence is the music? Minstrel, see we none; Yet soft as waves that, surge succeeding surge, Roll forward, now subside, anon emerge, Upheaved in glory o'er a setting sun, Those beatific harmonies sweep on! O'er earth they sweep from heaven's remotest verge Triumphant hymeneal, hymn and dirge, Blending in everlasting unison. Whence is the music? Stranger, these were they That, great in love, by love unvanquished proved: These were true lovers, for in God they loved: With God, these Spirits rest in endless day, Yet still for Love's behoof, on wings out spread Float on o'er earth, betwixt the Angels and the Dead! |