To Music

When all the words - said yet again - fall dead,
And all the thoughts, that sound so secondhand,
So stale and flat, unprofitable seem,
I turn to listening to that inner sound:
That music, like a fountain murmuring,
Forever present; ever fresh and new;
The glorious reassurance that within
This outward crust, a ceaseless self creates
A song of joy that never ends, nor stales:
To capture this, a genius may succeed;
The rest of us - oh joy ! - can never fail:
If to that inner music we pay heed.
That fountain is the sound of our true self;
The song that sings to life, eternal wealth.