 | Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell |  |
TO AN ÆOLIAN HARP AT NIGHT
There is a spirit in thee,
A spirit wild and lone,
As of a fallen star;
And when the night-winds win thee
To muse of thy lost throne,
Thy voice is sunken far
In the night's vast hollow
So deep and low,
That the soul dare not follow
Its wandering woe:
Thine anguish sharp
Doth wring the harp
Where bitter fate hath bound thee,
And countless wings
Of dreamy things
Rustle the dark around thee,
Bending to hear
The music clear
Thy hopeless woe hath found thee.
A spirit wild and lone,
As of a fallen star;
And when the night-winds win thee
To muse of thy lost throne,
Thy voice is sunken far
In the night's vast hollow
So deep and low,
That the soul dare not follow
Its wandering woe:
Thine anguish sharp
Doth wring the harp
Where bitter fate hath bound thee,
And countless wings
Of dreamy things
Rustle the dark around thee,
Bending to hear
The music clear
Thy hopeless woe hath found thee.
Up from the wondrous past
When thou an angel wast,
Shapes of dim hugeness rise
Through the darkness yonder;
And the old mysteries
With awfully calm eyes
All about thee wander:
Faces of dumb distress
Without a hope of balm;
Of fiery gentleness
In agony kept calm;
Of wisdom deep as death,
Older than oldest star,
O'er which a pale gleam wandereth
From suns long set afar;
Creatures of love and awe,
Dark with the aged woe
Of Godhead long brought low,
Such as the young earth saw
In temples long ago,
When beauty gave unbroken law
And great thoughts into Gods did grow.
When thou an angel wast,
Shapes of dim hugeness rise
Through the darkness yonder;
And the old mysteries
With awfully calm eyes
All about thee wander:
Faces of dumb distress
Without a hope of balm;
Of fiery gentleness
In agony kept calm;
Of wisdom deep as death,
Older than oldest star,
O'er which a pale gleam wandereth
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Creatures of love and awe,
Dark with the aged woe
Of Godhead long brought low,
Such as the young earth saw
In temples long ago,
When beauty gave unbroken law
And great thoughts into Gods did grow.
In thy heart's abysses
Darkness dwells forever:
Memory of old blisses
Parteth from thee never:
Thinking of thy former light
Deepeneth thy deepest night,
And puts a sadness in thy wail
So utterly forsaken,
That my hope turns deathly pale,
Doubtful of her skyey mail,
When thy moans awaken.
Darkness dwells forever:
Memory of old blisses
Parteth from thee never:
Thinking of thy former light
Deepeneth thy deepest night,
And puts a sadness in thy wail
So utterly forsaken,
That my hope turns deathly pale,
Doubtful of her skyey mail,
When thy moans awaken.
There is a night in thy dark heart
Which longeth for no morrow,
A glorious and awful sorrow
Wherewith thou would'st not part
Though thou could'st so regain
The ancient fulness of thy reign;
Thou hast learned in thine unnumbered years
Of loneliness and woe
That the soil must be wet with many tears
Where the soul's best flowers grow.
Which longeth for no morrow,
A glorious and awful sorrow
Wherewith thou would'st not part
Though thou could'st so regain
The ancient fulness of thy reign;
Thou hast learned in thine unnumbered years
Of loneliness and woe
That the soil must be wet with many tears
Where the soul's best flowers grow.
There are unworded pains
Whereby the spirit gains
Home in the deepest deep;
Our sorrow and annoy
High as the angel's joy
On wings of patience sweep;
In joy our bodies shine,
Grief makes our souls divine,
Clay washeth from us with each tear we weep.
Whereby the spirit gains
Home in the deepest deep;
Our sorrow and annoy
High as the angel's joy
On wings of patience sweep;
In joy our bodies shine,
Grief makes our souls divine,
Clay washeth from us with each tear we weep.
Woe is more glorious
Than deepest gladness,
Great thoughts look on us
With eyes of sadness;
The mournfullest melodies
Still are the mildest,
Filling the soul with ease
When it is wildest;
There is a joyous gain
In our tears' fiery rain,
And well we can languish
In sorrow and anguish
While the soul maketh music and song of its pain.
Than deepest gladness,
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With eyes of sadness;
The mournfullest melodies
Still are the mildest,
Filling the soul with ease
When it is wildest;
There is a joyous gain
In our tears' fiery rain,
And well we can languish
In sorrow and anguish
While the soul maketh music and song of its pain.
| Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell | |