 | 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 | |