Classic Poem

The poet smote his harp, whose cords were spun
Of threads of rain and golden webs of sun
By summer winds entwined, and pitched to key
With bass of ocean's deep-voiced harmony.

And as he played, there stole across the strings
Perfume of fields, and forest whisperings
And moan of mountain pines — the sweet, low cry
That crickets make — the glow of summer sky.

And he who heard was stirred, till in his breast
Woke springtime's rapture and its vague unrest;
The world was young! Yet, though so minor-sweet,
One tone yet lacked to make the chord complete.

Then he who played it, still more closely pressed
The vibrant harp to his own pulsing breast
Till his own heartstrings with the harp he smote
Rang full accord, and gave the missing note.

Then in the chords, with voice of sky and seas
Mingled men's loves and hopes and sympathies;
And in the hearer's heart an echo beat
Through smiles and tears — the music was complete.