Classic Poem

'T was long ago:
The place was very fair;
And from a cloud of snow
A spirit of the air
Dropped to the earth below.
It was a spot by man untrod, —
Just where
I think is only known to God.

The spirit for a while,
Because of beauty freshly made,
Could only smile:
Then grew the smiling to a song,
And as he sang he played
Upon a moonbeam-wired cithole,
Shaped like a soul.

There was no ear
Or far or near
Save one small sparrow of the wood
That song to hear.
This, in a bosky tree,
Heard all, and understood
As much as a small sparrow could
By sympathy.

'T was a fair sight —
That morn of spring
When, on the lonely height,
The spirit paused to sing,
Then through the air took flight,
Still lilting on the wing.
And the shy bird,
Who all had heard,
Straightway began
To practise o'er the lovely strain,
Again, again;
Though indistinct and blurred,
He tried each word,
Until he caught the last far sounds that fell,
Like the faint tinkle of a fairy bell.

Now, when I hear that song,
Which has no earthly tone,
My soul is carried with the strain along
To the everlasting Throne,
To bow in thankfulness and prayer,
And gain fresh love, and faith, and patience there.