 | Collected poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson |  |
L'ENVOI
Now in a thought, now in a shadowed word,Now in a voice that thrills eternity,
Ever there comes an onward phrase to me
Of some transcendent music I have heard;
No piteous thing by soft hands dulcimered,
No trumpet crash of blood-sick victory.
But a glad strain of some vast harmony
That no brief mortal touch has ever stirred.
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No character wherewith to set it down,
No kind of instrument to make it sing.
No kind of instrument? Ah, yes, there is;
And after time and place are overthrown,
God's touch will keep its one chord quivering.
| Collected poems of Edwin Arlington Robinson | |