A Neglected Harp

O hushed and shrouded room! O silence that enchains! O me—of many melodies The cold and voiceless tomb; What sweet impassioned strains, What fair unearthly things, Sealed up in frozen cadences, Are aching in my strings!

Each time the setting sun, At eve when all is still, Doth reach a pale faint finger in To touch them one by one; O what an inward thrill Of music makes them swell! The prisoned song-pulse beats within And almost breaks the spell.

Each time the ghostly moon Among the shadows gleams, And leads them in a mournful dance To some mysterious tune; O then, indeed, it seems Strange muffled tones repeat The wail within me, and perchance The measure of the feet.

But often when the ring Of some sweet voice is near, Or past me the light garments brush Soft as a spirit’s wing,— O, more than I can bear, I feel, intense, the throb Of some rich inward music gush That comes out in a sob.

For am I not—alas, The quick days come and go— A weak and songless instrument Through which the song-breaths pass? I would a heart might know, I would a hand might free These wondrous melodies up-pent And languishing in me.

A sharp strange music smote The night.—In yon recess The shrouded harp from all its strings Gave forth a piercing note: With that long bitterness The stricken air still aches; ’Twas like the one true word that sings Some poet whose heart breaks.