There is music on disc and on wireless,
Band-music, dance-tunes for the tireless,
Sweet music from day unto day;
But the music a man will remember
Shakes down the last leaves of November,
And speeds the wild geese in December,
And greets the first oak-bud in May.
What string with such beauty can tremble?
What bugle such raptures assemble?
What trumpet can sound such a call?
Is there ever a melody nearer
The quick-beating heart of the hearer?
Is there ever a tune that is dearer
As it chooses a dance for us all?
No song is so sweet in the setting,
No lilt so forbids all forgetting
Or lingers so long by the way;
When the shadows of night gather o’er us,
And the scarlet has faded before us,
The ring of that ravishing chorus
Dies not with the death of the day.
Back to William Henry Ogilvie