 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
NATURE'S MUSIC.
Hast thou e'er seen a little child, who laysHis hand upon a harp, and sweeps the strings?
And, thronging 'neath it, come strange answerings,
Beyond the power of words to paraphrase:
Yearning, as if in pain, from their sweet maze
Of vocal sounds and airy wanderings,
To disentangle their confusëd wings,
And mount to heav'n, each in its proper place,
Whilst he amazed doth hear—e'en such am I—
For, when I strike the strings of Nature's lyre,
I know not half the chords of harmony
Which answer: vibrating till they expire
Beyond the imagined bounds of earth and sky,
Going both deeper and ascending higher!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |