BEETHOVEN

O Master, if immortals suffer aught

Of sadness like to ours, and in like sighs

And with like overflow of darkened eyes

Disburden them, I know not; but methought,

What time to day mine ear the utterance caught

Whereby in manifold melodious wise

Thy heart's unrestful infelicities

Rose like a sea with easeless winds distraught,

That thine seemed angel's grieving, as of one

Strayed somewhere out of heaven, and uttering

Lone moan and alien wail: because he hath

Failed to remember the remounting path,

And singing, weeping, can but weep and sing

Ever, through vasts forgotten of the sun.