The harmony of morning, and a thrush’s 

Throat among the sleep-deserted boughs;

Expiring mists that murmur all the day

Of a clear dusk, with music at the close;

Wind harp, rain song, night madrigal and round;

There is no word melodious at those.

 

Rage of the viol whose deep and shady room

Is sounded to a tempest by the strings;

Sweet keys depressed, swift rise upon a note

Whence all the narrow soul of music hangs;

The lifted flute, the reed, and horns agreeing:

Words in the weak of these are scrannel gongs.

 

In them another music, half of sound

And half of something taciturn between;

In them another ringing, not for ears,

No loud; but in the chambers of a brain

Are bells that clap an answer when the words

Move orderly, with truth among the train.

 

早晨的和諧，畫眉的喉嚨

睡在荒涼的樹枝中；

過期的迷霧一整天都在嘀咕

一個清澈的黃昏，音樂結束；

風豎琴，雨歌，夜的牧歌和輪唱； 

沒有比那些悅耳動聽的詞。 

 

低音大提琴的憤怒，它們的房間漆黑陰暗 

因弦樂充滿聲響，引來騷動； 

甜美的音調沮喪，快速上升一個音符 

所有狹隘的音樂靈魂在那都懸而未決；

抬起的長笛，牧笛和小號都同意： 

這些變弱之後的詞是微弱的鑼。 

 

它們裡頭的另一個音樂，一半的聲音

某個東西的一半在它們之間沉默無言； 

它們裡頭的另一個鈴聲，不是給耳朵聆聽， 

聲音不大，但在大腦的房間裡 

當這些詞語有序地移動時，

鈴響起一個答案，以及列車中的真相。