Classic Poem

On seeing a Song interpreted to her by Signs

Poor Girl! I said, hapless thy fate, to whom
Forever silent is the voice of song;
To whom the viol sings not, nor the sweet soul
Imprisoned in the flute: — to whom we all,
As thou to us, are deaf, and still, and mute,
And even nature moves in a dumb show.
Yet why to thee may not the effect of sound,
Which is the soul of motion, and hence thought,
With high constraint of harmony to move
The throng of worlds symphonious to the sun, —
(And who within himself has never felt
The power of sound control him by this law
To cadent movement of the hand or foot,
Or stirred by swifter impulse, to enact
Its promptings intricate?) why may not the effect
Of sounds melodious be felt by thee
In motion , if that sound itself be naught
But motion given to a subtler sense?
If this may be, — and pity for thy state,
Though with less proof, might make me think it so, —
Then, may this dumb discourse to thee be song,
Our looks be music, and a soothing sign
Or glance affectionate, a sweet-spoken tone, —
To thee, the rising sun be a great strain
Majestical, and his departing pomp
An anthem like the evening psalm of heaven,
Sung by responsive choirs angelical
To harp and trumpet, — and the rising moon
May be, what almost it has seemed to me,
A prelude soft to the full hymn which Night
Pours forth with the appearing stars, that fill
The trembling heaven with innumerous sounds —
The streams to thee be music, as to us,
The birds in their winged flight be harmonies,
The tyrannous winds, that rock the earth-fast wood
Beneath its perilous weight of swinging boughs,
Sing thee a song of might; or when from sleep
They rouse with slight continuous stir that sets
The leaves a-tremble, and along the fields
Steal whisperingly, and move the seas of grain
Into slight silvery waves, may seem a tune,
Like those we chaunt in snatches to ourselves, —
A song made in the silent soul, and sung
To the unuttered music of its own sweet thoughts.