SONG-GIFT.
ONCE amid the star-lit stillness
That was music's sweetest breath,
Ere the thorn was on the roses,
Ere the lilies dreamed of death,
Gleamed a radiance divine
And a voice said, "Thou art mine."
That was music's sweetest breath,
Ere the thorn was on the roses,
Ere the lilies dreamed of death,
Gleamed a radiance divine
And a voice said, "Thou art mine."
Since I came to dwell with mortals
I have sought to find my own;
I can trace a fitful likeness
In the souls that I have known;
But I feel no mystic thrill,
That one voice is silent still.
I have sought to find my own;
I can trace a fitful likeness
In the souls that I have known;
But I feel no mystic thrill,
That one voice is silent still.
When I bend above the primrose,
When the violet is blue;
When the eglantine is heavy
With the early morning dew;
I can feel a presence near
That is sacred, that is dear.
When the violet is blue;
When the eglantine is heavy
With the early morning dew;
I can feel a presence near
That is sacred, that is dear.
When I strive to set to music,
Thoughts that break like crested foam;
When I seek the wave-washed willows
Waving over childhood's home;
Comes a presence half divine
That is not of me or mine.
Thoughts that break like crested foam;
When I seek the wave-washed willows
Waving over childhood's home;
Comes a presence half divine
That is not of me or mine.
When again I hear her calling
I shall end my broken song;
I shall wake my jarring harp-strings
Into music new and strong.
All that I have failed to sing
Will her promised coming bring.
I shall end my broken song;
I shall wake my jarring harp-strings
Into music new and strong.
All that I have failed to sing
Will her promised coming bring.