SILENCE.
171
From out thy chosen Poet; in a hall
Of mute expectancy we stood, where all
That listened with us held their breath unstirred:
When suddenly the reader's voice let fall
Its flow of music; sweet as was the song
He paused in, conquered by a spell more strong,
We asked him not its cadence to recall.
It seemed as if a Thought of God did fill
His World, that drawn unto the Father's breast,
Lay hush'd with all its children. This was Rest,
And this the soul's true Sabbath, deep and still.
Then marvelled I no longer that a space
Is found in Heaven for Silence; so to me
That hour made known its true sufficiency,
Revealed not oft below, because its place
Is with the Blessed! Speech is but a part
Of Life's deep poverty, whereof the heart
Is conscious, striving in its vague unrest
To fill its void; but when the measure pressed
And running over to its clasp is given,
It seeketh nothing more, and Earth is blest
With Silence—even such as is in Heaven!
Of mute expectancy we stood, where all
That listened with us held their breath unstirred:
When suddenly the reader's voice let fall
Its flow of music; sweet as was the song
He paused in, conquered by a spell more strong,
We asked him not its cadence to recall.
It seemed as if a Thought of God did fill
His World, that drawn unto the Father's breast,
Lay hush'd with all its children. This was Rest,
And this the soul's true Sabbath, deep and still.
Then marvelled I no longer that a space
Is found in Heaven for Silence; so to me
That hour made known its true sufficiency,
Revealed not oft below, because its place
Is with the Blessed! Speech is but a part
Of Life's deep poverty, whereof the heart
Is conscious, striving in its vague unrest
To fill its void; but when the measure pressed
And running over to its clasp is given,
It seeketh nothing more, and Earth is blest
With Silence—even such as is in Heaven!
