 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
85
UTTERANCE
I have strung my harp, and tuned each subtle chord
To truest consonance, and day by day
Have trained my tripping fingers how to stray
With swift unerring motions. I have stored
To truest consonance, and day by day
Have trained my tripping fingers how to stray
With swift unerring motions. I have stored
My mind with every grave melodious tone,
Each eager modulation, deftly planned
O'er perilous gaps to reach a welcoming hand:—
Yet cannot frame a music of my own.
Each eager modulation, deftly planned
O'er perilous gaps to reach a welcoming hand:—
Yet cannot frame a music of my own.
O for that hour when, with reverberant wings,
Some airy thought, deliberate, at my call,
Shall drop beside me, whispering in my ear:
And I shall seize my harp, and thrill to hear
The pent-up music ripple and break, with all
My heart's rich secrets echoing down the strings.
Some airy thought, deliberate, at my call,
Shall drop beside me, whispering in my ear:
And I shall seize my harp, and thrill to hear
The pent-up music ripple and break, with all
My heart's rich secrets echoing down the strings.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |