Orpheus
Orpheus
with
his
lute
made
trees
And
the
mountain
tops
that
freeze
Bow
themselves
when
he
did
sing:
To
his
music
plants
and
flowers
Ever
sprung;
as
sun
and
showers
There
had
made
a
lasting
spring.
Every
thing
that
heard
him
play,
Even
the
billows
of
the
sea,
Hung
their
heads
and
then
lay
by.
In
sweet
music
is
such
art,
Killing
care
and
grief
of
heart
Fall
asleep,
or
hearing,
die.
