Experience, like a pale musician, holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hand
Whence harmonies we cannot understand,
Of God's will in His worlds, the strain unfolds
In sad perplexed minors. Deathly colds
Fall on us while we hear and countermand
Our sanguine heart back from the fancyland
With nightingales in visionary wolds.
We mummer,--'Whereus any certain tune
Of measured music in such notes as these?'--
But angels, leaning from the golden seat,
Are not so minded : their fine ear hath won
That issue of complete cadences;
And smiling down the stars, they whisper--SWEET
-Elizabeth B. Browning
