Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/262

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Which are the workings of the poet's mind: But music is a mystery, and viewless Even when present, and is less man's act, And less within his order; for the hand That can call forth the tones, yet cannot tell Whither they go, or if they live or die, When floated once beyond his feeble ear; And then, as if it were an unreal thing, The wind will sweep from the neglected strings As rich a swell as ever minstrel drew.

A poet's word, a painter's touch, will reach The innermost recesses of the heart, Making the pulses throb in unison With joy or grief, which we can analyse; There is the cause for pleasure and for pain: