Chopin Poem by John Bannister Tabb

Soul, that in music, as a flower in light,
Didst gem, and bloom, and vanish, with a breath
That mist-like o'er the sullen tide of death
Keeps fragrant still the memory of thy flight;
Dost thou, immortal, on the topmost height
Of harmony, forget the world beneath,
And all its chords tumultuous? Wandereth
No echo upwards through the sundering night?
Aye; notes of thine own making, now forlorn,
Like fledglings fluttered from the nest of love,
Tell of thy care; while with harmonious wing
They fan the depths of silence, listening
To hear anon thy mandate from above,
Hence to their home, thy bosom, to return.