The harp has fallen from the master's hand; <br />Mute is the music, voiceless are the strings, <br />Save such faint discord as the wild wind flings <br />In sad aeolian murmurs through the land. <br />The tide of melody, whose billows grand <br />Flowed o'er the world in clearest utterings, <br />Now, in receding current, sobs and sings <br />That song we never wholly understand. <br />* * O, eyes where glorious prophecies belong, <br />And gracious reverence to humbly bow, <br />And kingly spirit, proud, and pure, and strong; <br />O, pallid minstrel with the laureled brow, <br />And lips so long attuned to sacred song, <br />How sweet must be the Heavenly anthem now!<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bryant-2/
