Classic Poem

I

Play on my soul; thou Spirit from the skies,
And with me rise
Far o'er the tops of upward-gazing trees,
That I, before so mute;
Transformed, become thy lute;
May learn the secret of all harmonies.
Be seated in a warm love-light;
Play tenderly, and from some tranquil height
Drop down clear notes of peace to men below:
Possess me, fly with me — I care not where we go.

II

Ah! do not sing of pain!
But from the chords entice
At eve a moving strain;
And, by some rare device,
Turn all my tears to music-pearls, and set
About the borders of thy living lute,
To make, when thou dost sing,
Continuous murmuring,
Faint as the echo of a Naiad's flute,
But flowing with a cool, refreshing sound,
Like hidden waters springing from the ground.

III

Sometimes, I pray thee, Spirit, linger long
Over a drowsy song
Such as new-mated thrushes lisp in sleep;
Make it so soothing and so low
That they who lie awake and know
How tardily the moments come and go, —
All they that lie awake to weep, —
May feel it like a touch of tenderness,
And only they may hear, and only they may bless.

IV

Into thy music put the budding Spring,
With all her birds and every pleasant thing:
With words like flowers thy singing pastures set,
To teach me to forget
The flexed chords that the world had keyed too low;
The strident wail; the shrilling discontent;
And all the dissonance that marred me so
Before I had become thy instrument.