  As when in dreams we sometimes hear A melody so faint and fine And musically sweet and clear, It flavors all the atmosphere With harmony divine,— So, often in my waking dreams, I hear a melody that seems Like fairy voices whispering To me the song I never sing. Sometimes when brooding o’er the years My lavish youth has thrown away— When all the glowing past appears But as a mirage that my tears Have crumbled to decay,— I thrill to find the ache and pain Of my remorse is stilled again, As, forward bent and listening, I hear the song I never sing. A murmuring of rhythmic words, Adrift on tunes whose currents flow Melodious with the trill of birds, And far-off lowing of the herds In lands of long ago; And every sound the truant loves Comes to me like the coo of doves When first in blooming fields of Spring I heard the song I never sing. The echoes of old voices, wound In limpid streams of laughter where The river Time runs bubble-crowned, And giddy eddies ripple round The lilies growing there; Where roses, bending o’er the brink, Drain their own kisses as they drink, And ivies climb and twine and cling About the song I never sing. An ocean-surge of sound that falls As though a tide of heavenly art Had tempested the gleaming halls And crested o’er the golden walls In showers on my heart.... Thus—thus, with open arms and eyes Uplifted toward the alien skies, Forgetting every earthly thing, I hear the song I never sing. O nameless lay, sing clear and strong, Pour down thy melody divine Till purifying floods of song Have washed away the stains of wrong That dim this soul of mine! O woo me near and nearer thee, Till my glad lips may catch the key, And, with a voice unwavering, |
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