What note is this of infinite appeal
That wakes beneath thy hand’s inspired control?
Is it a prayer from man’s most secret soul
To the dim gods Death only can reveal,—
Whose hands we know can wound, yet trust may heal?
Hark, now, for ’twixt the prayer and the prayer’s goal,
From far away, beyond where planets roll,
Something I hear, or something subtly feel:
Down all the deep, untraveled, star–watched way,
Faint as a wind at dawn of a June day,
Comes a divine response: Ah! now ’tis here.
Lo! prayer is turned to passionate triumphing,
And in thy music’s moon–thrilled atmosphere
My soul drinks deep of some immortal spring.