 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
309
[IV. We of our age are part, and every thrill that wakes]
We of our age are part, and every thrill that wakes
The tremulous air of Life its motion in us makes.
The tremulous air of Life its motion in us makes.
The imitative mass mere empty echo give,
As walls and rocks return the sound that they receive.
As walls and rocks return the sound that they receive.
But as the bell, that high in some cathedral swings,
Stirred by whatever thrill, with its own music rings,
Stirred by whatever thrill, with its own music rings,
So finer souls give forth, to each vibrating tone
Impinging on their life, a music of their own.
Impinging on their life, a music of their own.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |