There is nothing to strike and nothing to hear.

Though the vibrations move on, and live,
And thus the law of their being obey,
'Tis the ear produces the sound they give--
That's what I heard a philosopher say.

So if thunder, roll'd through quivering air,
With that awful silence reigning around,
And you or I suddenly landed there,
All Nature would break at once into sound.

It seems very strange and eerie, you know;
I don't understand how it is--do you?
But a philosopher said it, so
I really suppose that it must be true.

And is not there something in human hearts
(Mountains, you know, must spring out of the flat)
That at Love's light touch into music starts?
Ah, what would philosophers say to _that_?




There never was summer so bright as this,
And the world will always be burnished thus;
For if Love the magical painter is,
He for ever will paint the same for us.