My ghost, who runs behind me in the sun,

And lies awake beside me in the night,

Of all the quick and dead the only one

Who on my least and darkest thought throws light-

My ghost (who is my memory) who knows

The good and evil I have not yet done,

Who hurries me and harries me with blows

And fierce derision in the race I run-

My ghost, who hears me always, heard me say:

The straightness of my early pride is bent,

But though my promises are fallen away,

With music I remember what I meant.

And hearing the sound of music I can rise,

And sharp against the shining heavens lean,

A single tree, and feel, with no surprise,

My roots go deep, my boughs grow ever green."

"But after music," said my urgent ghost,

"When all the shaken strings are still, what then?"

"Then you," I said, "will mock me with my boast

Relentlessly, till music cries again."