How low when angels fall their black descent, Our primal thunder tells: known is the pain Of music, that nigh throning wisdom went, And one false note cast wailful to the insane. Now seems the language heard of Love as rain To make a mire where fruitfulness was meant. The golden harp gives out a jangled strain, Too like revolt from heaven's Omnipotent. But listen in the thought; so may there come Conception of a newly-added chord, Commanding space beyond where ear has home. In labour of the trouble at its fount, Leads Life to an intelligible Lord The rebel discords up the sacred mount. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A LOVER'S QUARREL by ROBERT BROWNING LEISURE by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME by PATRICK SARSFIELD GILMORE THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITIES by THOMAS HARDY A STIRRUP-CUP by DOUGLAS AINSLIE THE TEMPTATION OF OUR LORD: BALEUS PROLOCUTOR by JOHN BALE A WOODLAND RHYME by ALEXANDER BROWN |