For the Making of Music

Take of the maiden's, of the mother's sigh,

Of childhood's dream, the hope and peace that bless

Old age; take of the lover's kiss, caress,

Of light it kindles in the loved-one's eye;

Of June's long shadows, Autumn's evening sky,

Of roses, of the south wind's tenderness,

Of stars that burn through pine-tops, sprays that tress

The willow-banks where brooks run stillest by;

Take of the blissful lisping of young Spring,

Take of the last faint, pleading grief of Fall,

Of joy and woe that sleep and waking bring, —

The costliest offerings of the great, the small;

Now, pour into the empty soul each thing,

And let the Finger touch that moveth all.