Explore "Bryant" by James Whitcomb Riley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The harp has fallen from the master's hand; / Mute is the music, voiceless are the strings, / Save such faint discord as the wild wind flings / In sad aeolian murmurs through the land.
The tide of melody, whose billows grand / Flowed o'er the world in clearest utterings, / Now, in receding current, sobs and sings / That song we never wholly understand. / * * O, eyes where glorious prophecies belong, / And gracious reverence to humbly bow, / And kingly spirit, proud, and pure, and strong; / O, pallid minstrel with the laureled brow, / And lips so long attuned to sacred song, / How sweet must be the Heavenly anthem now!