There are harps that complain to the presence of night,
  To the presence of night alone—
  In a near and unchangeable tone—
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky,
  And breathed out a blessing—and...

Poet: John Neal

Two armies covered hill and plain,
  Where Rappahannock’s waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
  Of battle’s recent slaughters.

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents
  In meads of heavenly azure;
And each dread gun of the elements...

Enchantress, touch no more that strain!
I know not what it may contain,
But in my breast such mood it wakes
My very spirit almost breaks.
Thoughts come from out some hidden realm
Whose dim memorials overwhelm,
Still bring not back the things I lost...

Poet: John Albee

Jubilant the music through the fields a-ringing,—
Carol, warble, whistle, pipe,—endless ways of singing,
  Oriole, bobolink, melody of thrushes,
  Rustling trees, hum of bees, sudden little hushes,
    Broken suddenly again—
    Carol, whistle, rustle,...

When stars pursue their solemn flight,
Oft in the middle of the night,
A strain of music visits me,
Hushed in a moment silverly,—
Such rich and rapturous strains as make
The very soul of silence ache
With longing for the melody;

Or lovers...

It trembled off the keys,—a parting kiss
So sweet,—the angel slept upon his sword
As through the gate of Paradise we swept,—
Partakers of creation’s primal bliss!
  —The air was heavy with the breath
    Of violets and love till death.—
Forgetful...

My body answers you, my blood
Leaps at your maddening, piercing call
The fierce notes startle, and the veil
Of this dull present seems to fall.
  My soul responds to that long cry;
  It wants its country, Hungary!

Not mine by birth. Yet have I...

I Saw not they were strange, the ways I roam,
  Until the music called, and called me thence,
And tears stirred in my heart as tears may come
To lonely children straying far from home,
  Who know not how they wandered so, nor whence.

If I might follow...

                         “A note
All out of tune in this world’s instrument.”
—AMY LEVY.    

I KNOW not in what fashion she was made,
  Nor what her voice was, when she used to speak,
Nor if the silken lashes threw a shade
        On wan or rosy...

From “King Henry Eighth,” Act III. Sc. 1.

ORPHEUS, with his lute, made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
  Bow themselves when he did sing;
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung, as sun and showers
  There had made a lasting Spring....