  The tiny trembling tendons That twine about the heart, Are chords that yield a music Unknown to vocal art. Though soft the notes are sounded, Each vibration tells a tale Of the mellow, winsome sunshine, Or of fierce, destructive gale. Though the strings be few in number, They have compass far beyond The myriad chords around them, That are less delicately tuned. List we softly to the music As its volumes gently roll, Varied in their intonation By the tension of the soul. Ecstatic measures fill us With a rapture so profound, That we fancy heaven's portals With such harmonies abound. Each note is rich in meaning, Each tone is full and clear To the charming sweet delusion Of imagination's ear. If you would hear this music And be charmed by its tone, Attune your heart to harmony, For the music is its own. No lessons conned in schooldays, No studied forms of art, Can profit us so greatly As communion with our heart. It will sing us songs of rapture, Though silent each may be; It will help to solve the questions Of life's great mystery. If one would hear sweet harmony He carefully must live; For these songs will be an echo Of the keynote he shall give. If heartstrings be but tuned aright Sweet melodies we hear; If strung with envy and deceit, The tone is doleful, drear. Then let us tune our hearts with joy, And touch the strings with glee, For honor, truth, and purity, Will bring soul-ecstasy. |
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