Though sound has ceased
Within this dainty box,
Who will presume
To say its music
Has been totally released?
Is it not tinkling even now
Around this very room?
Lilts lightly in upon the dawn—
And not by chance
Makes even darkness dance?
Ah, you must allow
When love’s the key,
Mute music boxes
Blithely play
As if to prove the heart’s remembrance
Far more real than broken steel
Or clay.
Within this dainty box,
Who will presume
To say its music
Has been totally released?
Is it not tinkling even now
Around this very room?
Lilts lightly in upon the dawn—
And not by chance
Makes even darkness dance?
Ah, you must allow
When love’s the key,
Mute music boxes
Blithely play
As if to prove the heart’s remembrance
Far more real than broken steel
Or clay.
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Comments
Beautiful.
We, who will all-too-soon become broken clay, should thank Mr. Lee. As he may well know, that box never made music; music crafted the box.
Music makes and sustains everything–while human ears occasionally detect a stray vibration–most often, only silence.
And yet, the notes dance on.