T is you that are the music, not your song.

The song is but a door which, opening wide,

Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,

Your spirits harmony, which clear and strong

Sings but of you. Throughout your whole life long

Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide

This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,

Or single notes amid a glorious throng.

The song of earth has many different chords;

Ocean has many moods and many tones

Yet always ocean. In the damp Spring woods

The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones

Autumn alone can ripen. So is this

One music with a thousand cadences.