! Soul in secret hour Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, With music sweet as love, which overflows Or how could thy notes flow in such a Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue crystal stream? With some pain is fraught; Among the flowers and grass, which screen Our sweetest songs are those that tell of it from the view; Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives saddest thought. Not to shed a tear, Makes faint with too much sweet these I know not how thy joy we ever should heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Joyous and clear and fresh thy music Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine! I have never heard Praise of love or wine the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, That panted forth a flood of rapture so The world should listen then, as I am From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide; The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests; The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new stuffed in youth with triumphs gay Of old romance. away, These let us wish And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and winged Saint Agnes' saint ly care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon Saint Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honeyed middle of the night, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: The music, yearning like a god in pain, She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes |