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. This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on January 19, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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