Classic Poem

What soul hath struck its need of melody,
From life's strange instrument whereon it plays?
Are the aspiring strains of weary days
E'er gathered in their full intensity,
Swelling a psalm incomparable, free
To utter all their yearning? Nay! the lays
Moan on inadequately, for the ways
Of God in shaping souls we may not see.
'Mid baffled hopes we cry out in our need,
And wrestle in the shadows, wond'ring when
Such dissonance can e'er be sweet, and how.
But soon the watching Father will have freed
Our earthly ears to catch the music: then
The chrism of perfect peace shall bathe each brow.