Now comes the young musician,

Clad in black, arms filled with music,

Slim of hand and pale of face,

With far off eyes. And when he sits

Before his instrument a bright new grace

Breathes through him. O'er the keys

His quick hands lightly wander,

Lilting a fairy dance,

An old forgotten waltz, or thundering

The long slow crashing of the seas.

Here he is master of a phantom world

Which he calls to quickening life,

A world most intricately formed, replaced

Each instant by new images,

New patterns strangely interlaced....

The music lesser grows.

New patterns strangely interlaced....

The music lesser grows.

He lifts his hand,'And echoes in the air all softly sigh,

And those faint whispering notes

Dream...

Dream and die.