THE wind is now thy organist; -- a clank (We know not whence) ministers for a bell To mark some change of service. As the swell Of music reached its height, and even when sank The notes, in prelude, ROSLIN! to a blank Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof, Pillars, and arches, -- not in vain time-proof, Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank Came those live herbs? by what hand were they sown Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown? Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown, Copy their beauty more and more, and preach, Though mute, of all things blending into one. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO WHISTLER, AMERICAN; ON LOAN EXHIBIT OF PAINTINGS AT TATE GALLERY by EZRA POUND ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY BEFORE BANNOCKBURN by ROBERT BURNS ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE FEMALE GOD by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE WORLD by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE SUNDEW by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE NUANCES OF MENDACITY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE LAST MAN: ANTICIPATION OF EVIL TIDINGS by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |