AN old, worn harp that had been played Till all its strings were loose and frayed, Joy, Hate, and Fear, each one essayed, To play. But each in turn had found No sweet responsiveness of sound. Then Love the Master-Player came With heaving breast and eyes aflame; The Harp he took all undismayed, Smote on its strings, still strange to song, And brought forth music sweet and strong. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SONG OF THE SHEPHERDS by EDWIN MARKHAM A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 8 by THOMAS CAMPION A LILLIPUTIAN ODE ON THEIR MAJESTIES' ACCESSION by HENRY CAREY (1687-1743) THE ROCK OF CASHEL by AUBREY DE VERE THE SLEEPING BEAUTY by SAMUEL ROGERS THE FIFTEEN ACRES by JAMES STEPHENS THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE by ALFRED TENNYSON |