Music

There is music, deep and solemn
   Floating through the vaulted arch
When, in many an angry column,
   Clouds take up their stormy march:
O’er the ocean billows, heaping
    Mountains on the sloping sands,
There are ever wildly sweeping
    Shapeless and invisible hands.

Echoes full of truth and feeling
   From the olden bards sublime,
Are, like spirits, brightly stealing
   Through the broken walls of time.
The universe, that glorious palace,
    Thrills and trembles as they float,
Like the little blossom’s chalice
     With the humming of the mote.

On the air, as birds in meadows—
   Sweet embodiments of song—
Leave their bright fantastic shadows
    Trailing goldenly along.
Till, aside our armor laying,
    We like prisoners depart,
In the soul is music playing
    To the beating of the heart.