Passion Music

THE air grows faint within the shrine of Love, And from his altar rose-leaves fall away, As smoke of incense dims the dying day That crimsons on the golden roof above: But, slowly stealing, soon the organ plains, With quiring voices in a tender song, Which shakes my soul as with a tempest strong, Still as the music rolleth on refrains.

Now lifted light upon melodious wave, My spirit rises on each beating wing, That near unto the gates of bliss me bring; Full soon cast down, and bowed by thunder-tones, He falls upon the ground, and weeps and moans— Such madness doth Love’s votaries enslave.