To no crag-crowning castle above the wild main, To no bower of fair lady or villa in Spain; To no deep, hidden vaults where the stored jewels shine, Or the South’s ruddy sunlight is prisoned in wine; To no gardens enchanted where nightingales sing, And the flowers of all climes breathe perpetual spring: To none of all these They give access, my keys, My magical ebon and ivory keys. But to temples sublime, where music is prayer, To the bower of a goddess supernally fair; To the crypts where the ages their mysteries keep, Where the sorrows and joys of earth’s greatest ones sleep; Where the wine of emotion a li…
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