Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and
slack,
But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon his back,
Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret,
Still, my hope is all before me: for I cannot play it yet.
In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath ere let fall,
In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at
all;
Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your
frame,
Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than your
sorrow's name.
Not as mine, my soul's anointed, not as mine the rude and light
Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight;
Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you
afar,
Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are.
But on this, God's harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken
once.
Hoary Time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce.
But I will not fear to match them—no, by God, I will not
fear,
I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to
hear.