As one who on the precincts of a shrine Treads softly lest his footfall, echoing there, Profane the cloistered solitude of prayer, So reverence stays this venturous hand of mine Upon the brink of sound. Lo! themes divine, Hushed of the folding silence, everywhere, Upon the drowsy bosom of the air, Around thy form oblivious recline. O, bid me wake them! Let me call again Thy latest born, the last whose lingering sigh Sank, as departing genius retired, Into the mist of slumber. Hark, a train Of echoes heralding the anthem high! Prepare, my soul, to greet the strain inspired. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY LAST DUCHESS; FERRRA by ROBERT BROWNING TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS UNDER GENERAL GREENE by PHILIP FRENEAU THE COMET AT YELL'HAM by THOMAS HARDY THE CAVALIER'S SONG by WILLIAM MOTHERWELL DREAM-LOVE by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE THREE HERMITS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS A COWBOY TOAST by JAMES BARTON ADAMS |