How heaven was stormed with silver violence—
That trumpet-burst sublime,
Like cherubim in battle? Or, all sound
Tranced for the elevation of the Host,
How tingling silence thrilled through worlds profound,
Where moved the Holy Ghost,
And then Rome rocked with bells? If such things were,
They are not now. But we are strangely wrought
And vibrant, answering like a harp in air
The impalpable wind of thought.