I SHALL SING IT SOMETIME.
There is a poem somewhereThat is perfect in its time;That is perfect in its metre,That is perfect in its rhyme.It is written on the flowers,It is floating in the air;It is written on the hill tops,It is singing everywhere.And I know sometime I’ll write it—It is singing in my brain.I will seek it, I will find it,In my soul it long has lain.When I try to grasp this poem,It eludes me ever, aye—It is ever just beyond me,Though I hear it night and day.It is sung by hosts unnumbered,And was heard when world was new.It is heard when storm-clouds gather,And in glistening drops of dew.’Tis the singing of the flowers,’Tis the music of the stars.’Tis the rhythm of the ocean,And most perfect are its bars.In the universe ’tis written,And it is so sweet, and rare—It was written by the Master,It inspires every prayer.O if I could catch the rhythmThat aye fills the universe—That is sung by choir of angels;Inspired would be my verse.In Cathedral ’tis resounding,Chanted ’tis at altar pure;And the rhythm haunts me ever—Spirit song which doth allure.It is stately in its measure,Though it be a sad refrain;Though it be a merry jingleThat goes dancing through my brain.Yet itmaybe but theechoOf a symphony, or dirge,Or a mother’s loving ditty,That may through my brain e’er surge.’Tis the waterfall’s loud roaring,Or the humming of the bee.’Tis the raging of the tempestAs it moans upon the sea.’Tis the detonating cannon,Or the sigh of dying leaf.’Tis a song of glad rejoicing,Or a threnody of grief.’Tis the ghost of an old love song,Or the spirit of a prayer.’Tis a wail of deepest anguish,And I hear it everywhere.It is floating in the ether,It is written in the sky;But wherever may be poem,I shall sing it by and by.Be it song, or be it anthem—It doth in my heart e’er lie;And my soul for song is waiting,I shall sing it by and by.
There is a poem somewhereThat is perfect in its time;That is perfect in its metre,That is perfect in its rhyme.It is written on the flowers,It is floating in the air;It is written on the hill tops,It is singing everywhere.And I know sometime I’ll write it—It is singing in my brain.I will seek it, I will find it,In my soul it long has lain.When I try to grasp this poem,It eludes me ever, aye—It is ever just beyond me,Though I hear it night and day.It is sung by hosts unnumbered,And was heard when world was new.It is heard when storm-clouds gather,And in glistening drops of dew.’Tis the singing of the flowers,’Tis the music of the stars.’Tis the rhythm of the ocean,And most perfect are its bars.In the universe ’tis written,And it is so sweet, and rare—It was written by the Master,It inspires every prayer.O if I could catch the rhythmThat aye fills the universe—That is sung by choir of angels;Inspired would be my verse.In Cathedral ’tis resounding,Chanted ’tis at altar pure;And the rhythm haunts me ever—Spirit song which doth allure.It is stately in its measure,Though it be a sad refrain;Though it be a merry jingleThat goes dancing through my brain.Yet itmaybe but theechoOf a symphony, or dirge,Or a mother’s loving ditty,That may through my brain e’er surge.’Tis the waterfall’s loud roaring,Or the humming of the bee.’Tis the raging of the tempestAs it moans upon the sea.’Tis the detonating cannon,Or the sigh of dying leaf.’Tis a song of glad rejoicing,Or a threnody of grief.’Tis the ghost of an old love song,Or the spirit of a prayer.’Tis a wail of deepest anguish,And I hear it everywhere.It is floating in the ether,It is written in the sky;But wherever may be poem,I shall sing it by and by.Be it song, or be it anthem—It doth in my heart e’er lie;And my soul for song is waiting,I shall sing it by and by.