The Harmony of Morning

The Harmony of morning,

and a thrush's throat among the sleep deserted boughs,

Expiring mists that murmur all the day of a clear dusk, with music at the close;

Night madrigal and round: there is no word melodious as those.

Rage of the viol whose deep and shady room is sounded to a tempest by the strings;

Sweet keys depressed, swift rise upon a note, whence all the narrow soul of music hangs;

The reed, and horns agreeing: Words in the wake of these are scrannel gongs.

In them another music, half of sound and half of something taciturn between;

In them another ringing, ringing, not for ears, Not loud;

But in the chambers of a brain are bells that clap an answer when the words move orderly,

With truth among the train, When the words move, but in the chambers of a brain are bells

that clap an answer When the words move,

When the words move orderly, with truth among the train.