How low when angels fall their black descent, Our primal thunder tells: known is the pain Of music, that nigh throning wisdom went, And one false note cast wailful to the insane. Now seems the language heard of Love as rain To make a mire where fruitfulness was meant. The golden harp gives out a jangled strain, Too like revolt from heaven's Omnipotent. But listen in the thought; so may there come Conception of a newly-added chord, Commanding space beyond where ear has home. In labour of the trouble at its fount, Leads Life to an intelligible Lord The rebel discords up the sacred mount. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LIMERICK by OLIVER BROOK HERFORD THE ROARING FROST by ALICE MEYNELL FLAMMONDE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON TO ALFRED TENNYSON, MY GRANDSON by ALFRED TENNYSON CYNTHIA SPORTING by PHILIP AYRES UNKNOWN QUANTITY by LEONARD BACON (1887-1954) DEDICATIONS AND INSCRIPTIONS: 2. EPILOGUE: 5TH OCTOBER 1896 by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |