The Voice

The voice—its melody touched the ear,
As a sound we should look toward heaven, to hear;
As the soft, rich light of the western sky,
Where the sun went down, will meet the eye.
And it made me think of a world afar,
Above the sun, and the evening star—
Of the odors of flowers that freight the air
With the notes of the bright ones warbling there.
Methinks, when the world looks void and dark—
When the waves of trouble ingulf my bark—
When the sky above me is black with wrath,
And the lightning is all that illumes my path;
While I set my feet but with doubt and dread;
When the friend that I loved is false or dead;
In fear, in sorrow, in pain or care,
I would hear that voice poured out in prayer.
When the storm is past, and the heavens look bright,
While the clouds that I feared are dissolved in light—
When I smoothly glide o’er a peaceful sea,
With a breeze all fragrance and purity;
When the friend that I chose is the true one still,
Who adds to good, and who takes from ill;
In every joy that may gild my days,
I would hear that voice sent up in praise.
It was tuned for a rare and holy gift;
To pour in prayer, and in praise to lift;
And through the ear, as it took control,
And wrought its charm o’er the spell-bound soul,
It came in a sound so sweet and deep,
It could soothe the heart, though the eye must weep.
But it was not made for the thoughtless mirth
Whose light is a blaze from the chaff of earth!