A poem can tell

What words can never tell,

That music is not music

But another life, another world,

Where dreams are deed,

And where the sun

Fills all the roads with singing,

While the golden rivers run

Between the endless trees,

To bear down little boats

To brimming seas.

There only beauty fills the world,

And every man's a hero in a shining town

Where shouts and songs come down

From towers whirled

And whipped about with banners,

Wilde with birds.

A poem may tell you this,

But never words.