by John Banister Tabb
Aye, have we not felt it and known,
Ere Science proclaimed it her own,
That form is but visible tone?
Behold, where in silence was drowned
The last fleeting echo of sound,
The rainbow -- its blossom -- is found;
While anon, with a verdurous sweep
From the mountain-side, wooded and steep,
Swells the chorus of deep unto deep,
That the trumpet flowers, flame-flashing, blow
Till the lilies enkindled below
Swoon pale into passion, like snow!
Yea, Love, of sweet Nature the Lord,
Hath fashioned each manifold chord
To utter His visible Word,
Whose work, wheresoever begun,
Like the rays floating back to the Sun,
In the soul of all beauty is one.
John Lane, LondonCopeland and Day, Boston