157 <br /> <br />Musicians wrestle everywhere— <br />All day—among the crowded air <br />I hear the silver strife— <br />And—walking—long before the morn— <br />Such transport breaks upon the town <br />I think it that "New Life"! <br /> <br />If is not Bird—it has no nest— <br />Nor "Band"—in brass and scarlet—drest— <br />Nor Tamborin—nor Man— <br />It is not Hymn from pulpit read— <br />The "Morning Stars" the Treble led <br />On Time's first Afternoon! <br /> <br />Some—say—it is "the Spheres"—at play! <br />Some say that bright Majority <br />Of vanished Dames—and Men! <br />Some—think it service in the place <br />Where we—with late—celestial face— <br />Please God—shall Ascertain!<br /><br />Emily Dickinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/musicians-wrestle-everywhere/
