That tragic heart that pulsed a murmured beat;
He pushed aside his sorrow for so long,
Those melodies that ranged from great and strong
To melancholic mourning of defeat —

The orchestra would with the choir meet,
Conducted for an old symphonic song;
An expert of the craft before the throng
Where winds and strings and voices move to greet

That tragic heart, with age a frantic drum;
The man who made such music sound divine,
Who etched his soul upon the ledger line,

Who took the world, with its entire sum,
Condensed it to such music, and design
Our love in sounds to ever be so fine.