SING, poets, as ye list, of fields, of flowers, Of changing seasons with their brilliant round Of keen delights, or themes still more profound -- Where soul through sense transmutes this world of ours. There is a life intense beyond your powers Of utterance, which the ear alone has found In the aerial fields of rhythmic sound -- The inviolate pathways and air-woven bowers Built by entwining melodies and chords. Ah, could I find some correspondent sign Matching such wondrous art with fitting words! But vain the task. Within his hallowed shrine Apollo veils his face. No muse records In human speech such mysteries divine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS; A LEGEND OF GERMANY by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW PLAY by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM A THOUGHT FOR MOTHER'S DAY by MAMIE COLLINS BARRY REMINISCENCE by LYLE BARTSCHER |