The power that cometh, goeth,
As the wind bloweth;
The music-making sprite,
The player on the viewless strings,
Winning from the meanest things
Some hidden sweetness and delight--
Once on my reed did blow,
And now it cannot let the music go.
As stately trees, unswaying
Stand mutely praying
Through the still summer noon;
As each of thousand leaves doth keep
Some subtle harmony asleep,
Till breezes touch them into tune--
With all things, small and great,
My soul doth for its master wait.
