AN old, worn harp that had been played Till all its strings were loose and frayed, Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed, To play. But each in turn had found No sweet responsiveness of sound. Then Love the Master-Player came With heaving breast and eyes aflame; The Harp he took all undismayed, Smote on its strings, still strange to song, And brought forth music sweet and strong. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TREES by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE FLAMING HEART by RICHARD CRASHAW THE ROPEWALK by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE THREE ENEMIES by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI RUSSIA by ALEXANDER (ALEKSANDR) ALEXANDROVICH BLOK |