A sound of silence on the startled ear Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.” Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call “Silence”— which is the merest word of all. All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings — But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high The eternal voice of God is passing by, And the red winds are withering in the sky:— (Pt2) Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray Of sunken suns at eve — at noon of night, While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light — Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’d air, Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, And nursled the young mountain in its lair. Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall Of their own dissolution, while they die — Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these columns as a crown — A window of one circular diamond, there, Look’d out above into the purple air, And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallow’d all the beauty twice again, Save, when, between th’ empyrean and that ring, Some eager spirit Flapp’d his dusky wing. But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this world: that greyish green That Nature loves the best Beauty’s grave Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave — And every sculptur’d cherub thereabout That from his marble dwelling peered out, Seem’d earthly in the shadow of his niche — Achaian statues in a world so rich! Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis — From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave Is now upon thee — but too late to save!

voice output

Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone; Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude. Which is not loneliness-for then The spirits of the dead, who stood In life before thee, are again In death around thee, and their will Shall overshadow thee; be still. The night, though clear, shall frown. And the stars shall not look down From their high thrones in the Heaven With light like hope to mortals given. But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee for ever. Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish. Now are visions ne'er to vanish; From thy spirit shall they pass No more, like dew-drop from the grass. The breeze, the breath of God, is still. And the mist upon the hill Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken. Is a symbol and a token. How it hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries!

A sound of silence on the startled ear Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.” Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call “Silence”— which is the merest word of all. All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings — But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high The eternal voice of God is passing by, And the red winds are withering in the sky:— (Pt2) Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray Of sunken suns at eve — at noon of night, While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light — Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile Of gorgeous columns on th’ unburthen’d air, Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile Far down upon the wave that sparkled there, And nursled the young mountain in its lair. Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall Of their own dissolution, while they die — Adorning then the dwellings of the sky. A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these columns as a crown — A window of one circular diamond, there, Look’d out above into the purple air, And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallow’d all the beauty twice again, Save, when, between th’ empyrean and that ring, Some eager spirit Flapp’d his dusky wing. But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen The dimness of this world: that greyish green That Nature loves the best Beauty’s grave Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave — And every sculptur’d cherub thereabout That from his marble dwelling peered out, Seem’d earthly in the shadow of his niche — Achaian statues in a world so rich! Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis — From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave Is now upon thee — but too late to save!