No Music Now

SHOULD there be no more music now, if harps were all unstrung,
And stood like golden swans among mute violins, still flutes,
No birds would sing on budding shoots, and through a quiet fall
Leaves would not whisper in the streets, at all. Then from a silent sea
Waves would roll in soundlessly, and spruces on a hill,
Like trees asleep and deathly still, would sift a muted rain.
And even bells would swing in vain to sound the silent hours,
And hang at last like brazen flowers left from another year.
Then he who paused one day to hear the harp, the flute, the thrush,
Would wonder at the solemn hush that lay upon the land,
And would recall a curving hand over a vibrant string,
And remember how the flutes would ring at night within the hall.
But there no music . . . none at all . . . no sound to break the spell.
O empty world in which to dwell, where leaves along the bough
Unfold upon a silent spring — were there no music now!