Poems (Procter)/Murmurs
MURMURS.
HY wilt thou make bright music Give forth a sound of pain?Why wilt thou weave fair flowers Into a weary chain?Why turn each cool gray shadow Into a world of fears?Why say the winds are wailing? Why call the dewdrops tears?
The voices of happy nature, And the Heaven's sunny gleam,Reprove thy sick heart's fancies, Upbraid thy foolish dream.
Listen, and I will tell thee The song Creation sings,From the humming of bees in the heather, To the flutter of angels' wings.
An echo rings forever, The sound can never cease;It speaks to God of glory, It speaks to Earth of peace.
Not alone did angels sing it To the poor shepherds' ear;But the sphered Heavens chant it, While listening ages hear.
Above thy peevish wailing Rises that holy song;Above Earth's foolish clamor, Above the voice of wrong.
No creature of God's too lowly To murmur peace and praise:When the starry nights grow silent, Then speak the sunny days.
So leave thy sick heart's fancies, And lend thy little voiceTo the silver song of glory That bids the world rejoice.