The Harp by Virna Sheard — Read

Across the wind-swept spaces of the sky / The harp of all the world is hung on high, / And through its shining strings the swallows fly.

The little silver fingers of the rain / Oft touch it softly to a low refrain, / That all day long comes o'er and o'er again.

And when the storms of God above it roll, / The mighty wind awakes its sleeping soul / To songs of wild delight or bitter dole.

And through the quiet night, as faint and far / As melody down-drifted from a star, / Trembles strange music where those harp-strings are.

But only flying words of joy and woe, / Caught from the restless earth-bound souls below, / Over the vibrant wires ebb and flow.

And in the cities that men call their own, / And in the unnamed places, waste and lone, / This harp forever sounds Life's undertone.