'T is you that are the music, not your song. 
The song is but a door which, opening wide, 
Lets forth the pent-up melody inside, 
Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strong 
Sings but of you. Throughout your whole life long 
Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide 
This perfect beauty; waves within a tide, 
Or single notes amid a glorious throng. 
The song of earth has many different chords; 
Ocean has many moods and many tones 
Yet always ocean. In the damp Spring woods 
The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones 
Autumn alone can ripen. So is this 
One music with a thousand cadences.