They Drift Down The Hall Together; He Smiles In Her Lifted Eyes; Like Waves Of That Mighty River, The Strains Of The "Danube" Rise. They Float On Its Rhythmic Measure Like Leaves On A Summer-Stream; And Here, In This Scene Of Pleasure, I Bury My Sweet, Dead Dream. Through The Cloud Of Her Dusky Tresses, Like A Star, Shines Out Her Face, And The Form His Strong Arm Presses Is Sylph Like In Its Grace. As A Leaf On The Bounding River Is Lost In The Seething Sea, I Know That Forever And Ever My Dream Is Lost To Me. And Still The Viols Are Playing That Grand Old Wordless Rhyme; And Still Those Two Ate Swaying In Perfect Tune And Time. If The Great Bassoons That Mutter, If The Clarinets That Blow, Were Given A Voice To Utter The Secret Things They Know, Would The Lists Of The Slam Who Slumber On The Danube'S Battle-Plains The Unknown Hosts Outnumber Who Die 'Neath The "Danube'S" Strains? Those Fall Where Cannons Rattle, 'Mid The Rain Of Shot And Shell; But These, In A Fiercer Battle, Find Death In The Music'S Swell. With The River'S Roar Of Passion Is Blended The Dying Groan; But Here, In The Halls Of Fashion, Hearts Break, And Make No Moan. And The Music, Swelling And Sweeping, Like The River, Knows It All; But None Are Counting Or Keeping The Lists Of These Who Fall.