Exaltation
I.
Play on my soul, thou Spirit from the skies!
And with me rise
Far o're the tops of upward gazing trees;
That I, before so mute,
Transformed, become thy lute,
May learn the secret of all harmonies.
Be seated in a warm love-light;
Play tenderly, and, from some tranquil height,
Drop down clear notes of peace to men below:
Possess me; fly with me; I care not where we go.
Ah! do not sing of pain!
But from the chords entice,
At eve, a touching strain;
And, by some rare device,
Turn all my tears to music-pearls and set
About the borders of thy living lute,
To make, when thou dost sing,
Continuous murmuring,
Faint as the echo of a Naiad's flute,
But flowing with a cool, refreshing sound,
Like hidden waters springing from the ground.
Sometimes, I pray thee, Spirit, linger long,
Over a drowsy song,
Such as new-mated thrushes lisp in sleep;
Make it so soothing and so low
That they who lie awake and know
How tardily the moments come and go
All they who lie awake to weep
May feel it like a touch of tenderness,
And only they may hear, and only they may bless.
Into thy music put the budding spring
With all her birds and every pleasant thing;
With words like flowers thy singing pastures set
To teach me to forget
The fury and the fret;
The flexed chords that the world had keyed too low;
The strident wail; the shrilling discontent,
And all the dissonance that marred me so
Before I had become thy instrument.
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