Shatter me, music, with rhythmical fury!

Lofty reproach, lifted against the heart

that feared such surge of perception, sparing itself. My heart,

- there:

behold your glory! Can you remain contented

with less expansive beats, when the uppermost arches

are waiting for you to fill them with organing impulse?

Why do you long for the face withheld, for the far beloved?

For, oh, if your longing lacks breath to extort resounding storms

from the trumpet an angel blows on high at the end of the world,

she also does not exist, nowhere, will never be born,

she whom you parchingly miss...