Life is a song,
Which soul singths;
The spirit playing matter's lyre,
Melody starting with first cry,
Goes on and on,
Till completion of the journey,—
Notes high and notes low;
Beats ecstatic and tragic most;
Sometimes fast and sometimes pensively slow,
The soul goes on playing
The strings in body's harp,
And then the barely audible;
The last twinge at the death bed,
The soul as if in a hurry,
Plays the mysterious rhythm,
Which, though, completion of the song,
Stands distinct for its abstractness.
Aah! Why is it that
Most of the songs end on a tragic note?
Why not the escaping soul,
Plays the most rhythmic tone
At that moment last?
Consoles which those eyes
Where pain creates furious storms.
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