THE threads our hands in blindness spin No self-determined plan weaves in; The shuttle of the unseen powers Works out a pattern not as ours. Ah! small the choice of him who sings What sound shall leave the smitten strings; Fate holds and guides the hand of art; The singer's is the servant's part. The wind-harp chooses not the tone That through its trembling threads is blown; The patient organ cannot guess What hand its passive keys shall press. Through wish, resolve, and act, our will Is moved by undreamed forces still; And no man measures in advance His strength with untried circumstance. As streams take hue from shade and sun, As runs the life the song must run; But, glad or sad, to His good end God grant the varying notes may tend! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FIRST SNOWFALL by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THYESTES, ACT 2: CHORUS by LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 53. WITHOUT HER by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI HOPE AND FEAR by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE BASE OF ALL METAPHYSICS by WALT WHITMAN THE LEAPING POLL by WILLIAM HERVEY ALLEN JR. HAWTHORN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |