Mozart is nowhere when the strings begin,

The performers nobody when song pours in

To the word-making, to the sound-taking mind

From the golden cloud we see by being blind.

All the clocks have stopped, and there alone

In a lifting air with nothing of our own,

We are the music, building and obeying;

Motion with no haste, rest without staying;

Flags in a dark street, flame, the level drums

Beating forward the long column as it comes.

Brahms hopes for us, Wagner shouts, Bach knows.

Or with Sibelius guiding, the white mind goes

With a northern sound along the tops of trees,

Or by ship-side in a cold surge of seas.

It will end soon now, but the wood, the brass,

Speak of a long pride through which we pass.

The strings cry of a country of blue air

With wings and water flowing and stones bare.

The concert is nearly over. The drums are loud,

Loud. O let this last moment keep us proud

And quiet enough to get out through the crowd

Past voices, coats, and doors, to be alone,

To know alone what we have always known.