A Prelude, And A Bird's Song.

The poet's song, and the bird's,         And the waters' that chant as they run     And the waves' that kiss the beach,         And the wind's--they are but one.     He who may read their words,     And the secret hid in each,     May know the solemn monochords     That breathe in vast still places;     And the voices of myriad races,         Shy, and far-off from man,     That hide in shadow and sun,         And are seen but of him who can     To him the awful face is shown     Swathed in a cloud wind-blown     Of Him, who from His secret throne,     In some void, shadowy, and unknown land     Comes forth to lay His mighty hand     On the sounding organ keys,         That play deep thunder-marches,     Like the rush and the roar of seas,         And fill the cavernous arches     Of antique wildernesses hoary,         With a long-resounding roll,         As they fill man's listening soul     With a shuddering sense of might and glory.     These he shall hear, and more than these         In bird's song, and in poet's scroll;         Something underneath the whole,     A music yet unbreathed.--unsung--         Unwritten--incommunicable;     Whispered from no mortal tongue:     What seer nor prophet may rehearse         In oracle, or Delphic fable,     Since the old dead gods were young,     And made with man their dwelling-place;     But he shall hear, of all his race,         The dread wherefore of life and death;     He shall behold the ultimates     Of fears and doubts, and scores and hates,         And the sure final crown of faith.     And in his ear the rhythmic verse     Shall sound the steps of that beyond,         Serene, that hastens not, nor waits,     But holds within its depths profound         The mystery of all lives--all fates--     The secret of the universe.