  A ARE all the songs sung, all the music played? Are the keys quite worn out, and soundless quite, Which since sweet fancy’s dawning day have made Perpetual melody for man’s delight, And charmed the dull day and the heavy night? Must we go on with stale, repeated themes, Content with threadbare chords that faint and fail, Till all the fairy fabric of old dreams Becomes a jaded, oft-repeated tale, And poetry grows tired, and romance pale? I cannot think it; for the soul of man Is strung to answer to such myriad keys Set and attuned and chorded on a plan Of intricate and vibrant harmonies, How shall we limit that, or measure these? As free and urgent as the air that moves, As quick to tremble as Æolian strings, The soul responds and thrills to hates and loves, Desires and hopes, and joys and sufferings, And sympathy’s soft touch and anger’s stings. How dare we say the breezes all are blown, The chords have no reserved sweet in store; Or claim that all is tested and made known,— That nightingales may trill, or skylarks soar, But neither can surprise us any more? The world we call so old, God names his new; The thought we christen stale shall outlast men, While moons shall haunt the sky, and stars gleam through, While roses blossom on their thorny stem, And spring comes back again, and yet again; While human things like blossoms small and white Are dropped on earth from unseen parent skies, The olden dreams shall please, the songs delight, And those who shape and weave fair fantasies Shall catch the answering shine in new-born eyes. |
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