In a poor house this lover kept apart, Long communing with patience next his heart If love of his might move that face at all, Tuned evenwise with colours musical; Then after length of days he said thus: "Love, For love's own sake and for the love thereof Let no harsh words untune your gracious mood; For good it were, if anything be good, To comfort me in this pain's plague of mine; Seeing thus, how neither sleep nor bread nor wine Seems pleasant to me, yea no thing that is Seems pleasant to me; only I know this, Love's ways are sharp for palms of piteous feet To travel, but the end of such is sweet: Now do with me as seemeth you the best."
"Poems & Ballads (First Series)"
Algernon Charles Swinburne
To my ear the untune is agony; to my music, a discord in my day is death to what would have been written that day.
"A Woman's Will"
Anne Warner
It would be like Music in the Ode for St. Cecilia's Day, it would "untune the sky."
"The Note-Books of Samuel Butler"
Samuel Butler