Classic Poem

Yet when the mightiest of music's lords, —
Master-magician of that finer speech
Which tells of things that words can never reach,
And room for soul as well as sense affords, —
When he could hear no more the thrilling chords,
He was not deaf as is the lonely beach
To its own music: there was still a breach
Through which he heard the inarticulate words.
And He that said, " Why callest thou me good? "
Nor heard the music that his life outpoured, —
He was not stranger to a peace which flowed
From those calm heights whereto his spirit soared.
The praise of men might bravely be withstood,
But not the Love he silently adored.