WHEN one into the forest goes, A music sweet the spirit blesses; But whence it cometh no one knows, Nor common rumor even guesses. From the lost Church those strains must swell That come on all the winds resounding; The path to it now none can tell, That path with pilgrims once abounding. As lately, in the forest, where No beaten path could be discover'd, All lost in thought, I wander'd far, Upward to God my spirit hover'd. When all was silent round me there, Then in my ears that music sounded; The higher, purer, rose my prayer, The nearer, fuller, it resounded. Upon my heart such peace there fell, Those strains with all my thoughts so blended, That how it was I cannot tell That I so high that hour ascended. It seem'd a hundred years and more That I had been thus lost in dreaming, When, all earth's vapors op'ning o'er, A free large place stood, brightly beaming. The sky it was so blue and bland, The sun it was so full and glowing, As rose a minster vast and grand, The golden light all round it flowing. The clouds on which it rested seem'd To bear it up like wings of fire; Piercing the heavens, so I dream'd, Sublimely rose its lofty spire. The bell—what music from it roll'd! Shook, as it peal'd, the trembling tower; Rung by no mortal hand, but toll'd By some unseen, unearthly power. The selfsame power from Heaven thrill'd My being to its utmost centre, As, all with fear and gladness fill'd, Beneath the lofty dome I enter. I stood within the solemn pile— Words cannot tell with what amazement, As saints and martyrs seem'd to smile Down on me from each gorgeous casement. I saw the picture grow alive, And I beheld a world of glory, Where sainted men and women strive And act again their godlike story. Before the altar knelt I low— Love and devotion only feeling, While Heaven's glory seem'd to glow, Depicted on the lofty ceiling. Yet when again I upward gazed, The mighty dome in twain was shaken, And Heaven's gate wide open blazed, And every veil away was taken. What majesty I then beheld, My heart with adoration swelling; What music all my senses fill'd, Beyond the organ's power of telling, In words can never be exprest; Yet for that bliss who longs sincerely, O let him to the music list, That in the forest soundeth clearly! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOILS OF THE DEAD by ROBERT FROST AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR: 7. AFTER THE FAIR by THOMAS HARDY THE HOMES OF ENGLAND by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS AFTER THE WINTER by CLAUDE MCKAY MY SISTER'S SLEEP by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI BITTERNESS by VICTORIA MARY SACKVILLE-WEST RHAPSODY by MARTIN DONISTHORPE ARMSTRONG |