Music waits its new composer;
I wait, too, with heart and ear.
Melody waits soaring rapture;
Where’s the beauty I would hear?
Harmony waits joyous measure;
I wait, too, some master’s lead
Thrilling with sublimest pleasures,
Gift of genius for my greed.
Empty is the hall of music,
Empty with harsh wail and groan;
Where’s the song of lovely beauty,
Soft to soar on sweetest tone?
Yell me not with mikes turned higher—
Loudest nothing ‘s nothing still.
Only self-controlled desire
Fills all space with well-placed will.
Stirs there now a music master,
Someone somewhere bearing light?
Does his pulse beat strong and faster
For the joy he would ignite?
Come, compose, send beauty climbing!
Write the song that I would praise!
Meanwhile, I will keep on rhyming,
Urging on thy triumph’s blaze!