The Silver Harp

My soul is a silver harp,
Whose strings are as tenuous as moonbeams,
Whose notes are iridescent, like rainbows
Or prisms-glinting, live
With souls that pulse with love.
Oh it is an agony
To possess this gift!
For each stroke is like
Unto a cut within the flesh.
Lo, the downward drift of petals
Maketh music upon my harp;
And the nod of lilies sendeth forth
A sweet song through its tenuous strings.
The drip of dew maketh wet,
Tearful sounds upon it,
And the soughings of the zephyrs sob,
Sob mournfully-causing it grief.
And the sunlight maketh glad noises
Upon it with a golden touch that glistens, and,
The stars. twinkling resounds within its curve.
And the swaying of the grass is like its breath,
For the strings lend unto the rhythm,
And the moon lets her white light fall
In a pure melody upon the strings,
While my harp like a being sings,
Sings endlessly, endlessly, endlessly,
Lay after lay of exultation,
Each an agony of joy-
For they are the voice of God.