Bearing the wings of the soul aloft
From earth and its shadows dim;
Soothing the breast with a sound as soft
As a dream, or a seraph's hymn;
Evoking the solemnest hopes and fears
From our being's higher part;
Dimming the eyes with radiant tears
That flow from a spell bound heart?
Do they want a song that is only a song,
With no mystical meanings rife?
Or a music that solemnly moves along —
The undertone of a life!
Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art,
Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules —
A melody moves through my aged heart
Not learned from the books or schools:
A music I learned in the days long gone —
I cannot tell where or how —
But no matter where, it still sounds on
Back of this wrinkled brow.
And down in my heart I hear it still,
Like the echoes of far-off bells;
Like the dreamy sound of a summer rill
Flowing through fairy dells.
But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng,
And what the words of the old man's song?
The world they tell me, is so giddy grown
That thought is rare;
And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone
Hold empire there;
That fools have prestige, place and power and fame;
Can it be true
That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame,
And wise are few?
They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain,
With high and low;
That truth and honor are the slaves of gain;
Can it be so?