FROM invisible belfries, high-domed in the soul,Ring the "beautiful bells" of our hopes;And mortals, with vision transcendent, beholdThe hands that are pulling the ropes.
Silver-stranded the ropes, and so daintily strungFrom our souls to the Soul of the earth,That the angels are pale in their watching, lest oneRing a dissonance—jarred by our mirth.
Would ye hear the mute music and drink all the sweetThat floods in on the tide of the New?Be ye still as the stillness that sandals the feetOf a blush on the cheek or a star in the dew!
There's a Spirit of Triumph afloat on the air;The glad ghost of the Old in its flightSet the beacons ablaze on the hill-tops afar,And the valleys stir warm in the light.
Then be silent, O Heart! Let time muffle your throbWhile you wait for the hush of the chime;If you catch not the cadence, you'll know not the wordIt demands of your life as its rhyme.
