As an April garden Breathes the scent of rain— Rain that calls her treasures Back to life again— So my spirit quickens to the opening strain.
In its sheath of darkness Fancy's folded wing Thrills and stirs and quivers To another spring,
When the bow is drawn across the trembling string.
In their grave of silence,
In their husk and core,
Dreams that winter buried Feel the sap once more Running warm and vital, as it ran before.
Into secret chambers Where old passions sleep,
Through the long-closed shutters,
Lights of morning creep:
Through the opening doorway airs of morning sweep.
Hope resurgent, and Youth,
With their dancing train,
Mingled grief and glory,
Blended bliss and pain,
Ecstasies and agonies, come forth and live again.
Wizard hand that summoned Each forgotten ghost,
Plays like wind or water With the spell-bound host,
Sailing seas supernal, for no earthly coast.
Yet no magic music That an ear can mark Draws them winging upward Through the mist and dark,
As the sky at sunrise draws the mounting lark.
Through the poet-spirit,
Touched with heavenly fire,
Heavenly voices whisper In the wood and wire.
God is the musician, and my soul the lyre.
