The wailful sweetness of the violin <br />Floats down the hush-ed waters of the wind, <br />The heart-strings of the throbbing harp begin <br />To long in aching music. Spirit-pined, <br /> <br />In wafts that poignant sweetness drifts, until <br />The wounded soul ooze sadness. The red sun, <br />A bubble of fire, drops slowly toward the hill, <br />While one bird prattles that the day is done. <br /> <br />O setting Sun, that as in reverent days <br />Sinkest in music to thy smooth-ed sleep, <br />Discrowned of homage, though yet crowned with rays, <br />Hymned not at harvest more, though reapers reap: <br /> <br />For thee this music wakes not. O deceived, <br />If thou hear in these thoughtless harmonies <br />A pious phantom of adorings reaved, <br />And echo of fair ancient flatteries! <br /> <br />Yet, in this field where the Cross planted reigns, <br />I know not what strange passion bows my head <br />To thee, whose great command upon my veins <br />Proves thee a god for me not dead, not dead! <br /> <br />For worship it is too incredulous, <br />For doubt--oh, too believing-passionate! <br />What wild divinity makes my heart thus <br />A fount of most baptismal tears?--Thy straight <br /> <br />Long beam lies steady on the Cross. Ah me! <br />What secret would thy radiant finger show? <br />Of thy bright mastership is this the key? <br />Is THIS thy secret, then? And is it woe? <br /> <br />Fling from thine ear the burning curls, and hark <br />A song thou hast not heard in Northern day; <br />For Rome too daring, and for Greece too dark, <br />Sweet with wild wings that pass, that pass away!<br /><br />Francis Thompson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-to-the-setting-sun-prelude/
