Poems
From holy heights, unguessed, untrod,
Save by an angel when he bares
His rapture in a living flood
Of such pure chords the music dares
Live only in the sight of God.
Save by an angel when he bares
His rapture in a living flood
Of such pure chords the music dares
Live only in the sight of God.
Ah! Beatrice, what word have we
Sufficient—vainly do we speak,
And vainly sing—what song to thee
Of all our songs abashed and weak,
Shall wing towards Heaven worthily?
Sufficient—vainly do we speak,
And vainly sing—what song to thee
Of all our songs abashed and weak,
Shall wing towards Heaven worthily?
Alone our silence speaks—more strong,
More passionate our silence seems
Than any chord of any song.
Oh! Lady, take, oh! take our dreams,
Moulding them even as we long
More passionate our silence seems
Than any chord of any song.
Oh! Lady, take, oh! take our dreams,
Moulding them even as we long
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