Long thence I, of thy miracle, so learned:
This, seeming to perfection, thou didst play;
Such beauty rare, I heard of this, thy bow,
That thou, such Earthly-wrought, couldst make Divine.
Such beauty, then too beautiful, were spurned;
For seeming not of Earth, thy beauty lay;
So rarely this, some Earthly ear should know,
This Heaven-wrought Divinity of thine.
To hear these rise from Earth to skies I’ve yearned;
Thy notes of such beatitude convey;
That soar and lift mee ’round where next they goe;
And to the stars that make, to thee, their shrine.
To paradise returned, I beg thee stay;
This music overflow; thy soul, to mine.