Of human hope and fellowship that sung,
A mass for souls not dead but yet new born,
A herald blast on Freedom’s silver horn,
At dayspring on the brooding darkness flung,
With tidings of new joy in tuneful tongue,
The marching song of workers travel-worn.
As one in dreams I heard, and wondering rose;
E’en as the shepherds’ marvelling of old
To hear the angels quiring, and my blood
Quickened to catch at last their stirring close,