Sure 'tis the voice of choired saints that flows Along the billows of the softened breeze ... And now, in falls and dying symphonies, So sweet it glides, that forth my rapt soul goes To join those hymnings, ta'en from all her woes. Yet once more, and once more, ye minstrelsies Of power, my stormy spirit to appease, With some dissolving dream my thoughts compose. ... Again your strains float, sinking on the wind, Soft, wild, and mournful all; now melt away, Faintly perceived, like some expiring ray Of memory that trembles o'er the mind, Lovely in its departure, still enshrined As the blest relic of a happy day. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ENEMY'S PORTRAIT by THOMAS HARDY TO ANTHEA [WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING] by ROBERT HERRICK PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 49. AL-MAJID by EDWIN ARNOLD THE LADY TO HER GUITAR by EMILY JANE BRONTE FORFEITS by HENRY CUYLER BUNNER TO ---, ON HER OBSERVING THAT ST. VALENTINE'S DAY WAS HER BIRTHDAY by JOHN CHALK CLARIS |