O HUSHED and shrouded room!
O silence that enchains!
O me—of many melodies
The cold and voiceless tomb;
What sweet impassioned strains,
What fair unearthly things,
Sealed up in frozen cadences,
Each time the setting sun,
At eve when all is still,
Doth reach a pale faint finger in
To touch them one by one;
O what an inward thrill
Of music makes them swell!
The prisoned song-pulse beats within
And almost breaks the spell.
Each time the ghostly moon
Among the shadows gleams,
And leads them in a mournful dance
To some mysterious tune;
O then, indeed, it seems
Strange muffled tones repeat
The wail within me, and perchance
The measure of the feet.
But often when the ring
Of some sweet voice is near,
Or past me the light garments brush
O, more than I can bear,
I feel, intense, the throb
Of some rich inward music gush
That comes out in a sob.
For am I not—alas,
The quick days come and go—
A weak and songless instrument
Through which the song-breaths pass?
I would a heart might know,
I would a hand might free
These wondrous melodies up-pent
And languishing in me.
* * *
A sharp strange music smote
The night.—In yon recess
The shrouded harp from all its strings
With that long bitterness
The stricken air still aches;
’Twas like the one true word that sings
Some poet whose heart breaks.
