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But music moves us, and we know not why; We feel the tears, but cannot trace their source. Is it the language of some other state, Born of its memory? For what can wake The soul's strong instinct of another world, Like music? Well with sadness doth it suit, To hear the melancholy sounds decay, And think (for thoughts are life's great human links, And mingle with our feelings,) even so Will the heart's wildest pulses sink to rest.

How have I loved, when the red evening fill'd Our temple with its glory, first, to gaze On the strange contrast of the crimson air, Lighted as if with passion, and flung back, From silver vase and tripod rich with gems,