Classic Poem

Oh ! what a marvel of electric might,
That makes the ear the conqueror of space,
And gives us all of presence but the sight,
When miles of dark and distance hide the face.

Soul! is not this thy very analogue?
Do not strange thoughts come sounding through thee thus?
Ay, clear, sometimes, as if there were no clog
To shut remotest being out from us!

Low notes are said through this strange instrument
To reach the listener with distinctest tone;
So inmost thoughts, from man or angel sent,
Strike through the soul's aerial telephone!