Classic Poem

It did not seem like human art:
It seemed the language of the heart,
When joy or sorrow wake at will
The trembling chords, with magic skill;
So soft, so distant, so sadly sweet,
Like sounds when parted spirits meet.
Like a pure thought it gently stole,
And fell like hope upon the soul —
Not hope that rests on earthly things,
But that which peace and pardon brings;
Mingling tears and humble sorrow,
With the promise of the morrow.