On A Symphony Of Beethoven

Terrible music, whose strange utterance
  Seemed like the spell of some dread conscious trance;
  Motionless misery, impotent despair,
  With beckoning visions of things dear and fair;
  Restless desire, sharp poignant agonies;
  Soft, thrilling, melting, tender memories;
  Struggle and tempest, and around it all
  The heavy muffling folds of some black pall
  Stifling it slowly; a wild wail for life,
  Sinking in darkness—a short passionate strife
  With hideous fate, crushing the soul to earth;
  Sweet snatches of some melancholy mirth;
  A creeping fear, a shuddering dismay,
  Like the cold dawning of some fatal day;
  Dim faces growing pale in distant lands;
  Departing feet, and slowly severing hands;
  Voices of love, speaking the words of hate,—
  The mockery of a blessing come too late;
  Loveless and hopeless life, with memory,—
  This curse that music seemed to speak to me.