Forty-five is full of unheard music,
Organist in the chapel of his soul,
Reverent beneath a reverberant dome
That like stone lace lets in the noontide light.
Yearning for the organist to use them,
Fleeting phrases hope that he will choose them,
Integrating them into a whole
Vast enough to compass day and night,
Eternal in its well-wrought womb of stone.