I.

So oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
I think I know thee well, until I hear
A mystery, that softly thou convey'st
In tones that vanish just as they appear.
I listen as thy thoughts unfold in time,
I presciently feel thy harmony,
I recognize thy phrases as they climb
Aloft to sweet conclusion -- but they flee.
I gently clasp the pages of thy notes,
But I do not clasp thee, because thou art
A lilting that imperiously floats
Upon my mind, a shadow on my heart,
A storm within my memory thou hast wrought;
Thou dwellest there, because I know thee not.