Stones from The Quarry | ||
114
PLAYING OUT.
Oh whence that music, of such range and sweepThat if Archangels strike the lyre, it might
(So absolute the touch, so infinite
The chords) be theirs; so lap the soul and steep,
And cheat Death's stroke, or still arrested keep!
So far beyond our thoughts in depth and height,
That Being itself seems indefinite,
Suspended midway, in trance sweet and deep!
But once that harmony is heard by Man.
It plays his life out; plays it o'er again!
Transposed in minor key, time changed, and plan,
“The original theme” in the pathetic strain
Still reappears; what ends with what began;
And something more, which these cannot contain!
Stones from The Quarry | ||