There is in stillness oft a magic power <br />To calm the breast, when struggling passions lower; <br />Touch'd by its influence, in the soul arise <br />Diviner feelings, kindred with the skies. <br />By this the Arab's kindling thoughts expand, <br />When circling skies inclose the desert sand; <br />For this the hermit seeks the thickest grove, <br />To catch th' inspiring glow of heavenly love. <br />It is not solely in the freedom given <br />To purify and fix the heart on heaven; <br />There is a Spirit singing aye in air, <br />That lifts us high above all mortal care. <br />No mortal measure swells that mystic sound, <br />No mortal minstrel breathes such tones around,— <br />The Angels' hymn,—the sovereign harmony <br />That guides the rolling orbs along the sky,— <br />And hence perchance the tales of saints who view'd <br />And heard Angelic choirs in solitude. <br />By most unheard,—because the earthly din <br />Of toil or mirth has charms their ears to win. <br />Alas for man! he knows not of the bliss, <br />The heaven that brightens such a life as this.<br /><br />John Henry Newman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/solitude-140/
