I bowed in awe, and I listened —
The deeps of my soul were stirred,
But deepest of all was the meaning
Of the far-off music I heard,
And yet it was stiller than silence,
Its notes were the "Dream of a Word".
A word that is whispered in heaven,
But cannot be heard below;
It lives on the lips of the angels
Where'er their pure wings glow;
Yet only the "Dream of its Echo"
Ever reaches this valley of woe.
But I know the word and its meaning;
I reached to its height that day,
When prayer sank into a silence
And my heart was so far away;
But I may not murmur the music,
Nor the word may my lips yet say.
But some day far in the future,
And up from the dust of the dead,
And out of my lips when speechless
The mystical word shall be said,
'Twill come to thee, still as a spirit,
When the soul of the bard has fled.
The Master's Voice
The waves were weary, and they went to sleep;
The winds were hushed;
The starlight flushed
The furrowed face of all the mighty deep.
The billows yester eve so dark and wild,
Wore strangely now
A calm upon their brow,
Like that which rests upon a cradled child.
The sky was bright, and every single star,
With gleaming face,
Was in its place,
And looked upon the sea — so fair and far.
And all was still — still as a temple dim,
When low and faint,
As murmurs plaint,
Dies the last note of the Vesper hymn.
A bark slept on the sea, and in the bark
Slept Mary's Son —
The only One
Whose face is light! where all, all else, is dark.