In prone obeisance to furies wild Who wrack the frame with pain, dread fever's child, Are sleeping now the pillared harmonies That vowed to sound in cadence with the seas.
Storm-nights and tempest-mornings moored in Thee, Though conscious not, half-drugged through dream I see Above, the shadow gaunt aloof, away, And yet I am the player and the play.
I am music writing on the page I am the harp untuned as yet, the Mage Has hardly with his instrument begun, Before the song's set free Thou must be won.
Poems Undated (1727)
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