The unmeasured forests, quickening in their sleep,
Breathe they no sound, or breathe that sound in vain?
Say, can our compass small of ear and brain
With Nature’s boundless concords measure keep?
Not so! Her lyre, we know, hath tones too deep,
Too high, for man to hear, or to sustain.
Nor doubt that likewise in this soul of ours
Functions and faculties there work alway
Below the level of our conscious powers;
And chords whose music—were there aught to wake