Ghost Ship Posted September 18, 2007 #1 Share Posted September 18, 2007 By Aubrey Thomas De Vere (1814–1902) OF all great Nature’s tones that sweep Earth’s resonant bosom, far or near, Low-breathed or loudest, shrill or deep, How few are grasped by mortal ear. Ten octaves close our scale of sound: Its myriad grades, distinct or twined, Transcend our hearing’s petty bound, To us as colours to the blind. In Sound’s unmeasured empire thus The heights, the depths alike we miss; Ah, but in measured sound to us A compensating spell there is! In holy music’s golden speech Remotest notes to notes respond: Each octave is a world; yet each Vibrates to worlds its own beyond. Our narrow pale the vast resumes; Our sea-shell whispers of the sea: Echoes are ours of angel-plumes That winnow far infinity! —Clasp thou of Truth the central core! Hold fast that centre’s central sense! An atom there shall fill thee more Than realms on Truth’s circumference. That cradled Saviour, mute and small, Was God—is God while worlds endure! Who holds Truth truly holds it all In essence, or in miniature. Know what thou know’st! He knoweth much Who knows not many things: and he Knows most whose knowledge hath a touch Of God’s divine simplicity. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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