Not from the northern road, Not from the southern way, First his wild music flowed Into the village that day. He suddenly was in the lane, The people came out to hear, He suddenly went, and in vain Their hopes wished him to appear. His music strange did fret Each heart to wish 't was free. It was not a melody, yet It was not no melody. Somewhere far away, Somewhere far outside Being forced to live, they Felt this tune replied. Replied to that longing All have in their breasts, The lost sense belonging To forgotten quests. The happy wife now knew That she had married ill, The glad fond lover grew Weary of loving still, The maid and boy felt glad That they had dreaming only, The lone hearts that were sad Felt somewhere less lonely. In each soul woke the flower Whose touch leaves earthless dust, The soul's husband's first hour, The thing completing us, The shadow that comes to bless From kissed depths unexpressed, The luminous restlessness That is better than rest. As he came, he went. They felt him but half-be. Then he was quietly blent With silence and memory. Sleep left again their laughter, They tranced hope ceased to last And but a small time after They knew not he had passed. Yet when the sorrow of living, Because life is not willed, Comes back in dreams' hours, giving A sense of life being chilled Suddenly each remembers. It glows life a coming moon On where their dream-life embers. The mad fiddler's tune.