 | Echoes of Spring |  |
61
THE MYSTERIES.
There is music afloat on the zephyrs,
That the harper never hath played;
The Muse holds many a lyric,
That no bard ever hath made.
That the harper never hath played;
The Muse holds many a lyric,
That no bard ever hath made.
There lay 'neath our feet, precious treasures,
Had man but the wisdom, he'd find;
All mysteries lay at his fingers,
But the depth is too deep for his mind.
Had man but the wisdom, he'd find;
All mysteries lay at his fingers,
But the depth is too deep for his mind.
The mounts have unscaleble summits,
Where mortal never doth roam;
Where the wild birds build in the rocks of the hill,
And the grey eagle finds her a home.
Where mortal never doth roam;
Where the wild birds build in the rocks of the hill,
And the grey eagle finds her a home.
There are isles in the mighty ocean,
So far, far away from main land;
There are fishes that swim in her waters,
Unknown, and unheard of by man.
So far, far away from main land;
There are fishes that swim in her waters,
Unknown, and unheard of by man.
62
Yes, the myst'ry of life is a marvel;
And man has never been told,
Of the tie that binds life's existence,
Or the veil that hems in the soul.
And man has never been told,
Of the tie that binds life's existence,
Or the veil that hems in the soul.
So we 're groping in search of something,
Something we never will find,
Till we change to a spirit immortal,
And dwell in a far away clime.
Something we never will find,
Till we change to a spirit immortal,
And dwell in a far away clime.
| Echoes of Spring | |