I know not whose the words...

I know not whose the words,

Nor the maker of their music;

In my sorrow-laden heart

The aroma of its pathetic art

Like the soothing breath of dream.

Joy borrows its charm from sorrow;

Sorrow feverish with the color of joy;

An opaque crystal, a stone on life's string

Made of music that doth ring

As the stars on the lyre of night.

A pain it is, made perfect;

A call made clear by the voice of peace;

A silver stream of song

Darkened, yet floweth on and on

Between black banks of memory, into the Soul's white home.