Ode to Silence

O thou, sublime, who on the throneOf eyeless Night sat, awful and alone,Before the birth of Cronos,—brooding deepUpon the voiceless waters which asleepHeld all things circled in their gelid zone:O Silence! how approach thy shrineNor falter in the listening void to raiseA mortal voice in praise,Nor wrong with words such eloquence as thine?

Amid the fragrant forest hush,The nightingale or solitary-thrushMay, on thy quiet breaking, give no wound;For they such beauty bring as all redeems,Nor fear to interrupt thy dreamsOr trouble thy Nirvana with a sound!

And though more fitting worship seem the breathOf violets in the sequestered wood,The zephyr that low whisperethTo the heart of Solitude,The first unfolding of the bashful roseThat noiseless by the wayside buds and blows;

More fitting worship the far drift of cloudsO'er azure floating with a swan-like motion,The Siren-lays faint heard amid the shrouds,The voiceless swell of the unfathomed ocean,The silver Dian pours on the calm streamWhere pale the lotus-blossoms lie adream,—

Yet, mother of all high imaginings,In whom is neither barrenness nor dearth,Wise guardian of the sacred springsWhose fresh primordial waters heal the earth,—O soul of muted fire,Of whom is born the passionate desireThat gives to beauty birth,—

All music that hath been, howe'er divine,All possibilities of sound are thine!The syrinx-reed, the flute Apollo owns,Symphonic chords, and lyric overtones,First draw their inspiration at thy shrine.There come heart-broken mortal things;There once again they find their wings;There garner dreams benign,—O nurse of genius! unto whom belongBeethoven's harmonies and Homer's deathless song!