Poems (Bushnell)/World Music

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

I
WORLD MUSIC

Jubilant the music through the fields a-ringing,—
Carol, warble, whistle, pipe,—endless ways of singing;
  Oriole, bobolink, melody of thrushes,
  Rustling trees, hum of bees, sudden little hushes,
    Broken suddenly again,—
    Carol, whistle, rustle, humming,
    In reiterate refrain,
    Thither, hither, going, coming,
While the streamlets' softer voices mingle murmurously together;
Gurgle, whisper, lapses, plashes,—praise of love and summer weather.

Hark! A music finer on the air is blowing,—
Throbs of infinite content, sounds of things a-growing,
  Secret sounds, flit of bird under leafy cover,
  Odors shy floating by, clouds blown swiftly over,
    Kisses of the crimson roses,
    Crossings of the lily-lances,
    Stirrings when a bud uncloses,
    Tripping sun and shadow dances,
Murmur of aërial tides, stealthy zephyrs gliding,
And a thousand nameless things sweeter for their hiding.

Ah! a music more than these floweth on forever,
In and out, yet all beyond our tracing or endeavor,
  Far tho' clear, strange tho' near, sweet with a profounder sweetness,
  Mystical, rhythmical, weaving all into completeness,
    For its wide, harmonious measures
    Not one earthly note let fall;
    Sorrows, raptures, pains and pleasures,
    All in it, and it in all.
Of earth's music the ennobler, of its discord the refiner,
Pipe of Pan was once its naming, now it hath a name diviner.