To A. J. Scott

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.         I walked all night: the darkness did not yield.         Around me fell a mist, a weary rain,         Enduring long. At length the dawn revealed         A temple's front, high-lifted from the plain.         Closed were the lofty doors that led within;         But by a wicket one might entrance gain.         'Twas awe and silence when I entered in;         The night, the weariness, the rain were lost         In hopeful spaces. First I heard a thin         Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed,         As if they sought some harmony to find         Which they knew once, but none of all that host         Could wile the far-fled music back to mind.         Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along         The pillared paths, and up the arches twined         With sister arches, rising, throng on throng,         Up to the roof's dim height. At broken times         The voices gathered to a burst of song,         But parted sudden, and were but single rimes         By single bells through Sabbath morning sent,         That have no thought of harmony or chimes.         Hopeful confusion! Who could be content         Looking and hearkening from the distant door?         I entered further. Solemnly it went--         Thy voice, Truth's herald, walking the untuned roar,         Calm and distinct, powerful and sweet and fine:         I loved and listened, listened and loved more.         May not the faint harp, tremulous, combine         Its ghostlike sounds with organ's mighty tone?         Let my poor song be taken in to thine.         Will not thy heart, with tempests of its own,         Yet hear aeolian sighs from thin chords blown?