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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
THE VOICE
Rich is the music of sweet instruments,—The separate harp, cornet, oboe, and flute,
The deep-souled viola, the 'cello grave,
The many-mooded, singing violin,
The infinite, triumphing, ivoried clavier;
And when, with art mysterious, some god
Thrills into one the lone and various tones,
Then is no hiding passion of the heart,
No sigh of evening winds, no breath of dawn,
No hope or hate of man that is not told.
But when a human voice leaps from that surge,
'T is as a flower that bursts from th' trembling earth;
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As, with exultant cries, up-curving, swift,
The shrill Walküre clamor against the sky,
Or pale Brünhilde moans her bitter fate.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |