A chord, stronger or weaker, is snapped asunder in every parting,
and time’s busy fingers are not practiced in re-splicing broken ties.
Meet again you may; will it be in the same way?
With the same sympathies? With the same sentiments?
Will the souls, hurrying on in diverse paths, unite once more,
as if the interval had been a dream? Rarely, rarely!
* * *
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds:
And as the mind is pitch’d the ear is pleased
With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave;
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch’d within us, and the heart replies.