To music bent, is my retired mind, And fain would I some song of pleasure sing; But in vain joys no comfort now I find, From heavenly thoughts, all true delight doth spring: Thy power, O God, Thy mercies, to record, Will sweeten every note and every word. All earthly pomp or beauty to express, Is but to carve in snow, on waves to write; Celestial things, though men conceive them less, Yet fullest are they in themselves of light: Such beams they yield as know no means to die, Such heat they cast as lifts the spirit high. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VICKSBURG by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE TO THE RIVER by EDGAR ALLAN POE PAUPER PETE'S SONG by MATHILDE BLIND RECOLLECTINS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN CLIFF DWELLER LYRICS: THE SOLOIST by BERTON BRALEY |