'Tis not the swaying frame we miss -
It is the steadfast Heart,
That had it beat a thousand years,
With Love alone had bent -
It's fervor the electric Oar,
That bore it through the Tomb -
Ourselves, denied the privilege,
Consolelessly presume.
Emily Dickinson
Musicians wrestle everywhere -
All day - among the crowded air
I hear the silver strife -
And - waking - long before the morn -
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that "New life"...