Experience, like a pale musician, holdsA dulcimer of patience in his hand,
Whence harmonies, we cannot understand,
Of God; will in his worlds, the strain
In sad-perplexed minors: deathly
Fall on us while we hear, and
Our sanguine heart back from the
With nightingales in visionary wolds.
We murmur ' Where is any certain
Or measured music in such notes as these ? 'But angels, leaning from the golden seat,
Are not so minded their fine ear hath
The issue of completed cadences,
And, smiling down the stars, they whisper—
ET.
LY
ED TO E.
J.
