Page:The Poems and Prose remains of Arthur Hugh Clough, volume 2 (1869).djvu/39

 Are there not, then, two musics unto men?— One loud and bold and coarse, And overpowering still perforce All tone and tune beside; Yet in despite its pride Only of fumes of foolish fancy bred, And sounding solely in the sounding head The other, soft and low, Stealing whence we not know, Painfully heard, and easily forgot, With pauses oft and many a silence strange (And silent oft it seems, when silent it is not), Revivals too of unexpected change Haply thou think’st ’twill never be begun, Or that ’t has come, and been, and passed away Yet turn to other none,— Turn not, oh, turn not thou! But listen, listen, listen,—if haply be heard it may; Listen, listen, listen,—is it not sounding now?

Yea, and as thought of some departed friend By death or distance parted will descend, Severing, in crowded rooms ablaze with light, As by a magic screen, the seer from the sight (Palsying the nerves that intervene The eye and central sense between); So may the ear, Hearing not hear, Though drums do roll, and pipes and cymbals ring; So the bare conscience of the better thing Unfelt, unseen, unimaged, all unknown, May fix the entrancèd soul ’mid multitudes alone.