 | Carol and Cadence |  |
THE TELEPHONE HARP.
The hand of the storm-wind sweeps the harp of the telephone wires;
It sounds the tempestuous tune to the world of the waste desires,
The story of life that's bond to a burden it may not cast,
The burden of Will and Woe, of Present, To-be and Past.
It sounds the tempestuous tune to the world of the waste desires,
The story of life that's bond to a burden it may not cast,
The burden of Will and Woe, of Present, To-be and Past.
Black 'gainst the blank of the clouds, upreared o'er the housetops high,
A giant sextuple stave is graven on the page of the sky,
Lyre for the lapse of the blast and score whence the choirs of the air
Their dreadful harmonies draw, the hymn of the world's despair.
A giant sextuple stave is graven on the page of the sky,
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Their dreadful harmonies draw, the hymn of the world's despair.
The levins play on the page and lighten the nameless notes
That the drums of the thunder sound and the tempest's trumpet-throats;
And whenas the West wind joins in the stormy symphony,
It is as there boomed in the air the droning bass of the sea.
That the drums of the thunder sound and the tempest's trumpet-throats;
And whenas the West wind joins in the stormy symphony,
It is as there boomed in the air the droning bass of the sea.
One hears in the storm of sound the plaint of the unknown powers,
The concert of wail that comes from other worlds than ours,
The inarticulate cry of things that till now were mute
And speak out their need through the strings of this monstrous man-made lute.
The concert of wail that comes from other worlds than ours,
The inarticulate cry of things that till now were mute
And speak out their need through the strings of this monstrous man-made lute.
Nay, cruel it is to hear the cry of the lives unknown,
That voice their ineffable woes in a speech that is not their own,
A speech that is neither theirs nor ours, that can but wail
Nor give us to understand a word of their woeful tale.
That voice their ineffable woes in a speech that is not their own,
A speech that is neither theirs nor ours, that can but wail
Nor give us to understand a word of their woeful tale.
Nay, doubtless, a like wail soars from this world of ours on high,
As it toils on its tedious round through the spheres of the empty sky;
And doubtless, as theirs o'er earth, o'er Venus our woe doth brood
And Saturn; nor there, as theirs with us, is understood.
As it toils on its tedious round through the spheres of the empty sky;
And doubtless, as theirs o'er earth, o'er Venus our woe doth brood
And Saturn; nor there, as theirs with us, is understood.
Will ever a speech be found, that is common to both, a speech,
That will able our aching hearts those other hearts to reach?
Will ever our earthly pains with the other-worldly woes
Commingle and each consoled of other be? Who knows?
That will able our aching hearts those other hearts to reach?
Will ever our earthly pains with the other-worldly woes
Commingle and each consoled of other be? Who knows?
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Sad sons of the Primal Curse, blind bondmen born of Will,
We follow the wandering fires, that Science lights; and still,
As we tread in the squirrel-round of the cage we “Progress” call,
Life reareth at either end the same unscaleable wall.
We follow the wandering fires, that Science lights; and still,
As we tread in the squirrel-round of the cage we “Progress” call,
Life reareth at either end the same unscaleable wall.
Drunk with conceit and drugged with the wine of the Will-to-be,
We think, though we know not yet our own world-history,
To have mastered the secret of Life, whilst still from the dark around
The sad mysterious spheres their mocking canticles sound;
We think, though we know not yet our own world-history,
To have mastered the secret of Life, whilst still from the dark around
The sad mysterious spheres their mocking canticles sound;
And still, o'er the world-din, shrills the old inscrutable plaint,
The wail of the wandering worlds, that speak, now far and faint,
Now doomful and deep, now low and light, now shrill and sharp,
As the hand of the storm-wind sweeps the strings of the telephone-harp.
The wail of the wandering worlds, that speak, now far and faint,
Now doomful and deep, now low and light, now shrill and sharp,
As the hand of the storm-wind sweeps the strings of the telephone-harp.
| Carol and Cadence | |