 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
SONNET L. SONNETS TO A VOICE.
III.
There is no other sound in heaven, I trow;
God and His angels bow from their high place
To hear the smallest word which that voice says;
And they do well, indeed, to listen so,
For they can hear it, though its tones are low;
They must have learnt by heart its gracious ways,
Its fluctuant languor, and low laughter's grace, —
Such tune as man again shall never know.
God and His angels bow from their high place
To hear the smallest word which that voice says;
And they do well, indeed, to listen so,
For they can hear it, though its tones are low;
They must have learnt by heart its gracious ways,
Its fluctuant languor, and low laughter's grace, —
Such tune as man again shall never know.
O winds! O birds! O rushing streams and seas!
And all things that make music for a space,
Be still, grow mute! for one who hears that voice
Can no more in your lesser sounds rejoice.
O voice of rest! O amplitude of peace!
Sound deified, — a bliss that beggars praise!
And all things that make music for a space,
Be still, grow mute! for one who hears that voice
Can no more in your lesser sounds rejoice.
O voice of rest! O amplitude of peace!
Sound deified, — a bliss that beggars praise!
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |