The music, yearning like a God in pain. — John Keats

Music's golden tongue

Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold.

As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.