EXPERIENCE, like a pale musician, holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hand,
Whence harmonies, we cannot understand,
Of God; will in his worlds, the strain unfolds
In sad-perplexed minors: deathly colds
Fall on us while we hear, and countermand
Our sanguine heart back from the fancyland
With nightingales in visionary wolds.
We murmur ' Where is any certain tune
Or measured music in such notes as these ? '
But angels, leaning from the golden seat,
Are not so minded their fine ear hath won
The issue of completed cadences,
And, smiling down the stars, they whisper--
SWEET.
More verses by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
- Ii
- Sonnet 40 - Oh, Yes! They Love Through All This World Of Ours!
- Sonnet 13 - And Wilt Thou Have Me Fashion Into Speech
- Sonnet 02 - But Only Three In All God's Universe
- Sonnet 27 - My Own Beloved, Who Hast Lifted Me