Page:Preludes, Meynell, 1875.djvu/30

14 Thou silent song, thou ever voiceless rhyme,

Is there no pulse to move thee,

At windy dawn, with a wild heart beating time,

And falling tears above thee,

O music stifled from the ears that love thee?

Oh, for a strain of thee from outer air!

Soul wearies soul, I find.

Of thee, thee, thee, I am mournfully aware,

—Contained in one poor mind,

Who wert in tune and time to every wind.

Poor grave, poor lost belovèd! but I burn

For some more vast To be.

As he that played that bootless tune may turn

And strike it on a lyre triumphantly,

I wait some future, all one lyre for thee.