Madrigal

The heart grief took for instrument,

Once shaken by its own piteous sound,

Returns to be a heart no more.

Sooner may music return

From the wind to the strung wires;

Sooner the burnished wood, inclined

To lute's shape and viol's

And bound with the thin strings,

May put forth leaves and be

Again an innocent tree.

Happier the nightingale,

Whose grief is music and no more,

Or water, whose sorrow is

Only its motion's sound,

Or air, or aught else music claims,

Than this hollow thing

Echoing if a hand

Touch it, or a wind.