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O, more than I can bear,
I feel, intense, the throb
Of some rich inward music gush
That comes out in a sob.
For am I not—alas,
The quick days come and go—
A weak and songless instrument
Through which the song-breaths pass?
I would a heart might know,
I would a hand might free
These wondrous melodies up-pent
And languishing in me.
A sharp strange music smote
The night.—In yon recess
The shrouded harp from all its strings
Gave forth a piercing note:
