Of dark at last.

 Weird wise and low, piercing and keen and glad,

 Or dim and sad

 As a forgotten strain

 Born when the broken legions of the rain

 Swept through the plain—

 He plays, like some dread veiled mysteriarch,

 Lighting the dark,

 Bidding the spring grow warm,

 The gendering merge and loosing of spirit in form,

 Peace out of storm.

11

 For music is the sacrament of love;

 He broods above

 The virgin silence, till

 She yields for rapture shuddering, yearning still

 To his sweet will.

 I hear him sing, “Your harp is like a mesh,

 Woven of flesh

 And spread within the shoal

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