The poems of John G. C. Brainard A new and authentic collection, with an original memoir of his life |
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REVERY. |
 | The poems of John G. C. Brainard |  |
REVERY.
Yes, there are thoughts that have no sound—such thoughts
That no coined phrase of words can utter them!
The tongue would syllable their shapes in vain—
The cautious pen, even in a master's hand,
Finds nothing at its point to mark them with.
No earthly note can touch these airy chords;
'T is silent music—indescribable.
We hear it when the ear is shut, and see
Its beauties when the eye is closed in sleep;
We feel it when the nerves are all at rest—
When the heart stops, and the charmed soul throbs on.
The immaterial pulses of that soul
Will revel to its harmonies, as if
Even in this mortal life 't were “fancy free”
From the gross business of the body's care.
That no coined phrase of words can utter them!
The tongue would syllable their shapes in vain—
The cautious pen, even in a master's hand,
Finds nothing at its point to mark them with.
No earthly note can touch these airy chords;
'T is silent music—indescribable.
We hear it when the ear is shut, and see
Its beauties when the eye is closed in sleep;
We feel it when the nerves are all at rest—
When the heart stops, and the charmed soul throbs on.
The immaterial pulses of that soul
Will revel to its harmonies, as if
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From the gross business of the body's care.
These are not of our make—they come sometimes,
When the sad sleeper has forgot his woes,
And given his agonies awhile to rest.
Through the still watches of the solemn night,
They pace with fairy feet the labyrinths
Of the brain's thousand cares, and lightly sweep
Its pains away for many a star-lit hour—
—But then the morning comes, and where are they?
Perhaps they visit to console the good—
Perchance to hurry on to his dark fate
The bad, and strew with flowers his way to death.
When the sad sleeper has forgot his woes,
And given his agonies awhile to rest.
Through the still watches of the solemn night,
They pace with fairy feet the labyrinths
Of the brain's thousand cares, and lightly sweep
Its pains away for many a star-lit hour—
—But then the morning comes, and where are they?
Perhaps they visit to console the good—
Perchance to hurry on to his dark fate
The bad, and strew with flowers his way to death.
| The poems of John G. C. Brainard | |