 | The Cup of Quietness |  |
3
BROKEN MUSIC
Again the strange delight, the strange distress,
The wistful voice that calls from far away;
Again the after-sense of loneliness,
Of golden times turned grey.
The wistful voice that calls from far away;
Again the after-sense of loneliness,
Of golden times turned grey.
Solemn and lustreless the moon's full sphere
Ascends; a star keeps virgin watch on high;
The birch's lightest tress is pencilled clear
Against the naked sky.
Ascends; a star keeps virgin watch on high;
The birch's lightest tress is pencilled clear
Against the naked sky.
A breath of God makes pure the heart, and fills
Its secret places with a whispering;
Through all the air a sudden sweetness thrills—
The tremor of the Spring.
Its secret places with a whispering;
Through all the air a sudden sweetness thrills—
The tremor of the Spring.
The thrush's song throbs with it; all things take
A swift significance, a pathos deep;
The quickened spirit seems about to wake
From life's oppressive sleep;
A swift significance, a pathos deep;
The quickened spirit seems about to wake
From life's oppressive sleep;
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Heights, that we long had struggled to achieve,
Seem close at hand and simple to attain;
The baffling mists of doubt dissolve, and leave
The heavenly landmarks plain;
Seem close at hand and simple to attain;
The baffling mists of doubt dissolve, and leave
The heavenly landmarks plain;
The beating heart is heard of songs unsung,
Faint echoes of some lost romance of youth,
And fragments of an old forgotten tongue—
The native speech of truth.
Faint echoes of some lost romance of youth,
And fragments of an old forgotten tongue—
The native speech of truth.
The light that makes the sordid beautiful,
The touch that turns our common clay to gold—
Alas! 'tis gone, and leaves the world more dull,
The darkened soul more cold.
The touch that turns our common clay to gold—
Alas! 'tis gone, and leaves the world more dull,
The darkened soul more cold.
Ah! not with men abides the voice divine;
All that our mortal ears avail to win
Is broken music, wafted from the shrine
Where none may enter in.
All that our mortal ears avail to win
Is broken music, wafted from the shrine
Where none may enter in.
| The Cup of Quietness | |