Classic Poem

Ourselves as null,
As dead and dull,
As an untouched lyre
In an unlit night,
We are played upon
By the hand of Dawn,
Till our heart is fire,
And our soul is light:
The world that surrounds us,
Thrums us and sounds us
As a harper might.

Turn where we will,
Our senses thrill
To some glad tune
Of March,
Or June,
Of lily, or larch,
Or sun, or moon.
Yet we are only the strings that shake,
And the harper may cease, or the strings may break.