by Anne PorterWhen I was a child
I once sat sobbing on the floor
Beside my mother's piano
As she played and sang
For there was in her singing
A shy yet solemn glory
My smallness could not holdAnd when I was asked
Why I was crying
I had no words for it
I only shook my head
And went on cryingWhy is it that music
At its most beautiful
Opens a wound in us
An ache a desolation
Deep as a homesickness
For some far-off
And half-forgotten countryI've never understood
Why this is soBur there's an ancient legend
From the other side of the world
That gives away the secret
Of this mysterious sorrowFor centuries on centuries
We have been wandering
But we were made for Paradise
As deer for the forestAnd when music comes to us
With its heavenly beauty
It brings us desolation
For when we hear it
We half remember
That lost native countryWe dimly remember the fields
Their fragrant windswept clover
The birdsongs in the orchards
The wild white violets in the moss
By the transparent streamsAnd shining at the heart of it
Is the longed-for beauty
Of the One who waits for us
Who will always wait for us
In those radiant meadowsYet also came to live with us
And wanders where we wander."Music" by Anne Porter from Living Things: Collected Poems.
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