To The One Of Fictive Music

Sister and mother and diviner love,

And of the sisterhood of the living

Most near, most clear, and of the clearest bloom,

And of the fragrant mothers the most

And queen, and of diviner love the

And flame and summer and sweet fire, no

Of cloudy silver sprinkles in your

Its venom of renown, and on your

No crown is simpler than the simple hair.

Now, of the music summoned by the

That separates us from the wind and sea,

Yet leaves us in them, until earth becomes,

By being so much of the things we are,

Gross effigy and simulacrum,

Gives motion to perfection more

Than yours, out of our own imperfections wrought,

Most rare, or ever of more kindred

In the laborious weaving that you wear.

For so retentive of themselves are

That music is intensest which

The near, the clear, and vaunts the clearest bloom,

And of all the vigils musing the obscure,

That apprehends the most which sees and names,

As in your name, an image that is sure,

Among the arrant spices of the sun,

O bough and bush and scented vine, in

We give ourselves our likest issuance.

Yet not too like, yet not so like to

Too near, too clear, saving a little to

Our feigning with the strange unlike, whence

The difference that heavenly pity brings.

For this, musician, in your girdle

Bear other perfumes.

On your pale head wearA band entwining, set with fatal stones.

Unreal, give back to us what once you gave:

The imagination that we spurned and crave.