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.
Everything 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.
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thanks