The Pathetic Symphony Poem by Richard Watson Gilder

(TSCHAIKOVSKY)
WHEN the last movement fell, I thought:
Ah me!
Death this indeed; but still the music poured
On and still on. Oh, deathlier it grew
And then, at last, my beating heart stood still, —
Beyond all natural grief the music passing,
Beyond all tragedy, or last farewell.
Then, on that fatal tide, dismayed I felt
This living soul, my own, without one tear,
Slowly, irrevocably, and alone,
Enter the ultimate silence and the dark.