You learn at least one thing from everyone you know,

And I, word-joiner cast among the singers, felt lost,

Rattling a typewriter to arouse the holy ghost.

They talked, "I! I! My care," but when they sang,

The roof under the arch over the bright world broke,

And all their voices filled pure space until it rang

With a joy I never knew, known in my own way always-

To be a throat, to be a bell struck, to be in pride

Nothing but the voice given to use, like being tall.

Honor is what they have. Their care is for the art,

As mine is, one ruthless purpose and that poetry.

I grudge them nothing but those moments of making

And knowing they make it, music. What it is to be-

To be doing the one beautiful thing with all your power.

You can do, perfectly shining and meaning perfectly,

And for an hour for the honor of music forever there.