Come again: sweet love doth now invite,
Thy graces that refrain,
To do me due delight,
To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die,
With thee again in sweetest sympathy.

Philips, whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty power and hapless love!
Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more;
Here find that calm thou gav'st so oft before;
Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine!

But listen, what harmony holy Is mingling its notes with our own!
The discord is vanishing slowly, And melts in that dominant tone.
And they that have heard it can never Return to confusion again,
Their voices are music for ever, And join in the mystical strain.

Awake, awake, my Lyre!
And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
Though so exalted she
And I so lowly be
Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.

Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear, with ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear...

The mysterious power of harmony
Will expiate a heavy delusion
And tame a revolting desire.

Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives,
When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,
Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,
But never will be sung to us again,
Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest
Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

If you were music, I would listen to you ceaselessly, and my low spirits would brighten up.

I couldn’t wait to pursue my love of singing again. Music helped me through a lot in the hospital, and it seemed like I was far away from my troubles when I was singing or listening to music.

Oh, could you view the melody
Of every grace
And music of her face,
You'd drop a tear;
Seeing more harmony
In her bright eye
Than now you hear.