How low when angels fall their black descent, <br />Our primal thunder tells: known is the pain <br />Of music, that nigh throning wisdom went, <br />And one false note cast wailful to the insane. <br />Now seems the language heard of Love as rain <br />To make a mire where fruitfulness was meant. <br />The golden harp gives out a jangled strain, <br />Too like revolt from heaven's Omnipotent. <br />But listen in the thought; so may there come <br />Conception of a newly-added chord, <br />Commanding space beyond where ear has home. <br />In labour of the trouble at its fount, <br />Leads Life to an intelligible Lord <br />The rebel discords up the sacred mount.<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-promise-in-disturbance/
