All things are wrought of melody,
Unheard, yet full of speaking spells:
Within the rock, within the tree,
A soul of music dwells.
To harmony all growth is set;
Each seed is but a music note,
From which each plant, each violet
Evolves its purple note.
Compact of melody, the rose
Woos the soft wind with strain on strain
Of crimson; and the lily blows
Its white stars to the rain.
The trees are preans, and the grass
One long, green fugue, beneath the SUR;
Song is his life, and all shall pass,
Shall cease when song is done.
. Madison Cawein.