Is there music always in the heart?
Does it sing a fresh yet endless song?
There are times I'm sure it must be so.
Is it singing in its waiting heart
for words to join it, tell itself in song?
Reason says, indeed it may be so.
When a poem goes straight from ear to heart,
its words so musical, it’s now our song,
it sings these words: the heart is always so.
(from a thought by Jacques Maritain)
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