Then were his quivering hands most strong

With blood of the repressed song,—

A fruitful barrenness. Oh, where

Out of angelic air,

This side the heavens’ spheres

Such sight to start and hinder tears.

Who knows, perhaps while silence throbbed

He heard the De Profundis sobbed

By his own organ at his bier to-day,—

It is the saints’ anticipative way,