Never is music wrought,
For silence only could that truth convey.
Widowed of him, his organ now is still,
His music-children fled, their echoing feet yet fill
The blue, far reaches of the vaulted nave,
The heart that sired them, pulseless in the grave.
Only the song he made is hushed, his soul,
Responsive to God's touch, in His control
Elsewhere shall tune the termless ecstasy
Of one who all his life kept here
An alien ear,
Homesick for harpings of eternity.
GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE
By Thomas O'Hagan
O pulsing heart with voice attuned
To all the soul builds high,
Framing in notes of love divine
A drama of the sky,
Across the Arno's flowing tide
The notes chime on the air,
Deep as the mysteries of God
And tender as a prayer.
Here, where the Poet of Sorrows dwelt,
Whose altar Love had built,
And framed his morn in dreams so pure
That knew not stain nor guilt:
O Vita Nuova! Earthly Love
Then changed to love Divine;
