All Things Are Wrought Of Melody, Unheard, Yet Full Of Speaking Spells; Within The Rock, Within The Tree, A Soul Of Music Dwells. A Mute Symphonic Sense That Thrills The Silent Frame Of Mortal Things; Its Heart Beats In The Ancient Hills, In Every Flower Sings. To Harmony All Growth Is Set Each Seed Is But A Music Mote, From Which Each Plant, Each Violet, Evolves Its Purple Note. Compact Of Melody, The Rose Woos The Soft Wind With Strain On Strain Of Crimson; And The Lily Blows Its White Bars To The Rain. The Trees Are P'Ans; And The Grass One Long Green Fugue Beneath The Sun Song Is Their Life; And All Shall Pass, Shall Cease, When Song Is Done.