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THE ORGANIST.
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THE ORGANIST.
SLOWLY I circle the dim, dizzy stair,
Wrapt in my cloak's gray fold,
Holding my heart lest it throb to the air
Its radiant secret, for though I be old,
Though I totter and rock like a ship in the wind,
And the sunbeams come unto me broken and blind,
Yet my spirit drinks youth from the treasure we hold,
Richer than gold.
Princes below me, lips wet from the wine
Hush at my organ's swell;
Ladies applaud me with clappings as fine
As showers that splash in a musical well.
But their ears only hear mighty melodies ringing,
And their souls never know 't is my angel there singing,
That the grand organ-angel awakes in his cell
Under my spell.
There in the midst of the wandering pipes,
Far from the gleaming keys,
