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...LA RONDE DU DIABLE by AMY LOWELL SURFACES AND MASKS; 7 by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. PURKAPILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TUNICA PALLIO PROPRIOR by MARIANNE MOORE NOTHING BUT LEAVES by LUCY EVELINA AKERMAN |