To the One of Fictive Music

 Sister and mother and diviner love,
 And of the sisterhood of the living dead
 Most near, most clear, and of the clearest bloom,
 And of the fragrant mothers the most dear
 And queen, and of diviner love the day
 And flame and summer and sweet fire, no thread
 Of cloudy silver sprinkles in your gown
 Its venom of renown, and on your head
 No crown is simpler than the simple hair.

 Now, of the music summoned by the birth
 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, none
 Gives motion to perfection more serene
 Than yours, out of our imperfections wrought,
 Most rare, or ever of more kindred air
 In the laborious weaving that you wear.

 For so retentive of themselves are men
 That music is intensest which proclaims
 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 whom
 We give ourselves our likest issuance.

 Yet not too like, yet not so like to be
 Too near, too clear, saving a little to endow
 Our feigning with the strange unlike, whence springs
 The difference that heavenly pity brings.
 For this, musician, in your girdle fixed
 Bear other perfumes. On your pale head wear
 A band entwining, set with fatal stones.
 Unreal, give back to us what once you gave:
 The imagination that we spurned and crave.