1. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. |
XL. |
XLI. |
XLII. |
XLIII. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVI. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
XLIX. |
L. |
LI. |
LII. |
LIII. |
LIV. |
LV. |
LVI. |
LVII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
I. |
II. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
I. |
II. |
ON HEARING OLE BULL IMPROVISE ON
THE VIOLIN. |
The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | ||
399
ON HEARING OLE BULL IMPROVISE ON THE VIOLIN.
What note is this of infinite appeal
That wakes beneath thy hand's inspired control?
Is it a prayer from man's most secret soul
To those dim gods Death only can reveal,—
Whose hands we know can wound, yet hope may heal?
Hark! — for between the prayer and the prayer's goal,
From far away, where unknown planets roll,
Surely I hear — or do I subtly feel—
That wakes beneath thy hand's inspired control?
Is it a prayer from man's most secret soul
To those dim gods Death only can reveal,—
Whose hands we know can wound, yet hope may heal?
Hark! — for between the prayer and the prayer's goal,
From far away, where unknown planets roll,
Surely I hear — or do I subtly feel—
Down all the deep, untravelled, star-watched way,
Faint as the wind at dawn of a June day,
Steal some divine response? Ah, yes! 't is here,
And prayer is turned to passionate triumphing,
And in thy music's moon-thrilled atmosphere
My soul drinks deep from some immortal spring.
Faint as the wind at dawn of a June day,
Steal some divine response? Ah, yes! 't is here,
And prayer is turned to passionate triumphing,
And in thy music's moon-thrilled atmosphere
My soul drinks deep from some immortal spring.
The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | ||