There is music on disc and on wireless, <br />Band-music, dance-tunes for the tireless, <br />Sweet music from day unto day; <br />But the music a man will remember <br />Shakes down the last leaves of November, <br />And speeds the wild geese in December, <br />And greets the first oak-bud in May. <br />What string with such beauty can tremble? <br />What bugle such raptures assemble? <br />What trumpet can sound such a call? <br />Is there ever a melody nearer <br />The quick-beating heart of the hearer? <br />Is there ever a tune that is dearer <br />As it chooses a dance for us all? <br />No song is so sweet in the setting, <br />No lilt so forbids all forgetting <br />Or lingers so long by the way; <br />When the shadows of night gather o’er us, <br />And the scarlet has faded before us, <br />The ring of that ravishing chorus <br />Dies not with the death of the day.<br /><br />William Henry Ogilvie<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hounds-3/
