Page:Dreams and Images.djvu/202

 Never is music wrought, For silence only could that truth convey. Widowed of him, his organ now is still, His music-children fled, their echoing feet yet fill The blue, far reaches of the vaulted nave, The heart that sired them, pulseless in the grave. Only the song he made is hushed, his soul, Responsive to God's touch, in His control Elsewhere shall tune the termless ecstasy Of one who all his life kept here An alien ear, Homesick for harpings of eternity.

GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE

O pulsing heart with voice attuned To all the soul builds high, Framing in notes of love divine A drama of the sky, Across the Arno's flowing tide The notes chime on the air, Deep as the mysteries of God And tender as a prayer.

Here, where the Poet of Sorrows dwelt, Whose altar Love had built, And framed his morn in dreams so pure That knew not stain nor guilt: O Vita Nuova! Earthly Love Then changed to love Divine;