IT is no harmony of human making, Though men have built those pipes of burnished gold; Their music, out of Nature's heart awaking, Forever new, forever is of old. Man makes not -- only finds -- all earthly beauty, Catching a thread of sunshine here and there, Some shining pebble in the path of duty, Some echo of the songs that flood the air. That prelude is a wind among the willows, Rising until it meets the torrent's roar; Now a wild ocean, beating his great billows Among the hollow caverns of the shore. It is the voice of some vast people, pleading For justice from an ancient shame and wrong, -- The tramp of God's avenging armies, treading With shouted thunders of triumphant song. O soul, that sittest chanting dreary dirges, Couldst thou but rise on some divine desire, As those deep chords upon their swelling surges Bear up the wavering voices of the choir! But ever lurking in the heart, there lingers The trouble of a false and jarring tone, As some great Organ which unskillful fingers Vex into discords when the Master's gone. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PASSIONATE MAN'S PILGRIMAGE by WALTER RALEIGH ST. AGNES' MORNING by MAXWELL ANDERSON FINDING CYNTHIA IN PAIN, AND CRYING; A SONNET by PHILIP AYRES THE ICONOCLAST by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE WINDING ROAD by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN LOVE AND COQUETRY by LEVI BISHOP JANUARY FULL MOON, YPRES by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 25 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: ADIEU, MIGNONNE, MA BELLE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |