Frank O'Hara - Ode on St. Cecilia's Day lyrics

I Pan seized the reeds and bound them quickly. Ah! they'd escape into the silent lake and he'd be left in idleness and lust to polish the horns of his forehead! He wept as he worked, afraid that desire again might wither and the music fail, that beauty might flee his new a**ault in the mirror or in the trees. II Laying his hollow mouth upon the open reeds Pan saw another love that memory never captures or k**s, a final abstraction engaging pursuit in its delight. The piano had not yet been invented, no one had ever stood with violin raised to kiss a madly erotic maiden. Pan's melody was his handiwork. III All of us who play at music fill our empty hearts and slump beside an indifferent pool in the pa**ionless gloaming, hearing in the pure geometry of tones whatever complicated commentaries we wish. Our motive's not despicable, in play we separate desire from the mirage of sentiment and ideal choice. IV Those who are not very fond of the tangible evidences of love shun music and are quiet, doctored by memory and the martyrdom of Saint Cecilia. The rest of us play and are played. seeking like Pan the pattern of our true desire, willing to follow motive anywhere to the tempo of failure and crime. I wonder can a virgin make music? V For this is necessary. Memory is a soundless ruin, a habit of mourning that builds no bridges or hands. It sighs, a harp no love can search; memory is without symmetry, supine and bad. Even with sandwiches and a pocket flask we die among its black houses. My dear! seek things seriously on your flute! I want you, tomorrow! VI Here, on the phonograph and in the hall of mountainous heroes, Schoenberg praises our beauty and the difficulty of our best chances. He sings of Cleopatra, not of you, poor Cecilia, who knew not even the fragile dream of Mélisande's fare. Mean pathos! His voice is too great, too great, it would burst your prudent heart! VII Impoverished Cecilia! flowers sent from heaven mean nothing! They should have been carelessly picked and strewn about your head and thighs. And l don't like your instrument, it embarra**es Pan and all lovers with its machinery. Music is incidental to your virgin contraption, proud girl! Ah! Cecilia! you did not love us! VIII Beautiful girl, had you been more the prodigal, less the saint, intimate music would have called you close at hand; no monster chewing fingers and belching into bottles at an intellectual remove, would have revealed your virtue's artifice! Fie, Cecilia! your instrument will never lead us in war or love! Today we hallow others' songs!