WE are stirred, we are thrilled, we are fired By impetuous pulses of Song, Not perceiving the Power that hurried the spirit along, Nor the Presence that inspired, Nor what hidden passion swells the throat With that high-soaring note. We are laden and sunk and opprest By a load of despondence and dread, Not knowing what mystical presence unseen, unconfessed, Those deep misgivings bred, Nor why across the mute and tuneless soul Dumb tides of silence roll. Ah, whether in silence or song the high music may come, A dark hand rules the strings; Be it Love, be it Hope, be it Faith the high melody wings, Or Doubt which strikes it dumb, A hidden Player sweeps the mystic chords Too high, too deep for words. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE BEING AS VISION by HAYDEN CARRUTH DOMESDAY BOOK: DOMESDAY BOOK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 8 by EZRA POUND OF ANY OLD MAN by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE ARCHITECT AT THE EDGE OF THE SEA by KAREN SWENSON |