THE CHORD UNSUNG
O letme on some mystic height aboveCompose, my soul, a perfect lay!O let me rise and ever onward riseUnto the fairest, perfect day!My heart doth swell with sweet, concordant tones,And I would fain burst out in song;But my weak soul can never rise the heightWhere such Æolian strains belong.Oft have I sat upon the seashore’s strandAnd strung my proud harp to the wave,While the billows rolled in splendor at my feetAnd the salt sea did my cushion lave.Then struck I out upon the surging tideMy sweetest notes of harp and wand,—But my weak themes fell most far short the minstrelsyOf those celestial strains beyond.
O letme on some mystic height aboveCompose, my soul, a perfect lay!O let me rise and ever onward riseUnto the fairest, perfect day!My heart doth swell with sweet, concordant tones,And I would fain burst out in song;But my weak soul can never rise the heightWhere such Æolian strains belong.Oft have I sat upon the seashore’s strandAnd strung my proud harp to the wave,While the billows rolled in splendor at my feetAnd the salt sea did my cushion lave.Then struck I out upon the surging tideMy sweetest notes of harp and wand,—But my weak themes fell most far short the minstrelsyOf those celestial strains beyond.
O letme on some mystic height aboveCompose, my soul, a perfect lay!O let me rise and ever onward riseUnto the fairest, perfect day!My heart doth swell with sweet, concordant tones,And I would fain burst out in song;But my weak soul can never rise the heightWhere such Æolian strains belong.
O letme on some mystic height above
Compose, my soul, a perfect lay!
O let me rise and ever onward rise
Unto the fairest, perfect day!
My heart doth swell with sweet, concordant tones,
And I would fain burst out in song;
But my weak soul can never rise the height
Where such Æolian strains belong.
Oft have I sat upon the seashore’s strandAnd strung my proud harp to the wave,While the billows rolled in splendor at my feetAnd the salt sea did my cushion lave.Then struck I out upon the surging tideMy sweetest notes of harp and wand,—But my weak themes fell most far short the minstrelsyOf those celestial strains beyond.
Oft have I sat upon the seashore’s strand
And strung my proud harp to the wave,
While the billows rolled in splendor at my feet
And the salt sea did my cushion lave.
Then struck I out upon the surging tide
My sweetest notes of harp and wand,—
But my weak themes fell most far short the minstrelsy
Of those celestial strains beyond.