Harmonics

        This string upon my harp was best beloved:
        I thought I knew its secrets through and through;
        Till an old man, whose young eyes lightened blue
        'Neath his white hair, bent over me and moved
        His fingers up and down, and broke the wire
        To such a laddered music, rung on rung,
        As from the patriarch's pillow skyward sprung
        Crowded with wide-flung wings and feet of fire.

        O vibrant heart! so metely tuned and strung
        That any untaught hand can draw from thee
        One clear gold note that makes the tired years young--
        What of the time when Love had whispered me
        Where slept thy nodes, and my hand pausefully
        Gave to the dim harmonics voice and tongue?

William Vaughn Moody

William Vaughn Moody was an American poet, dramatist, and professor born on July 8, 1869, in Spencer, Indiana. He graduated from Harvard University in 1893 and later joined its faculty teaching English literature. His notable works include the play "The Great Divide" and the poem "An Ode in Time of Hesitation." Moody was part of the Chicago literary renaissance. He passed away on October 17, 1910.

William Vaughn Moody

Jetsam

William Vaughn Moody, Simple Poetry

The Daguerreotype

William Vaughn Moody, Simple Poetry

The Menagerie

William Vaughn Moody, Simple Poetry

Road-Hymn For The Start

William Vaughn Moody, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

My Gentle Harp.

My gentle harp, once more I waken
    The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
    And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
    But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
    Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
    An hour of peace and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded
    With hopes--that now art turned to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
    Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,
    She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
    My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morni...

Thomas Moore

To A Lady Who Had Been Singing.

The spirit-harp within the breast
A spirit's touch alone can know,
Yet thine the power to wake its rest,
And bid its echoing numbers flow.

Yes, and thy minstrel art the while,
Can blend the tones of weal and we,
So archly, that the heart may smile,
Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.

And thus thy wizard skill can weave
Music's soft twilight o'er the breast,
As mingling day and night, at eve,
Robe the far purpling hills for rest.

Thy voice is treasured in my soul,
And echoing memory shall prolong
Those woman tones, whose sweet control
Melts joy and sorrow into song.

The tinted sea-shell, borne away
Far from the ocean's pebbly shore,
Still loves to hum the choral lay,
The whispering mermaid taught of yore.

T...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Harp

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 f...

Virna Sheard

The Origin Of The Harp.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep;
Till heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair--still her cheeks smiled the same--
While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Ti...

Thomas Moore

The Æolian Harp

My pensive SARA! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o'ergrown
With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leav'd Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddenning round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world so hush'd!
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
Tells us of silence.
[spacer][spacer]And that simplest Lute,
Plac'd length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!
How by the desultory breeze caress'd,
Like some coy maid half-yielding to her lover,
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs
Tempt to repeat th...

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

On Seeing A Needlecase In The Form Of A Harp - The Work Of E.M.S.

Frowns are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent,
That mimicry should thus disgrace
The noble Instrument.

A very Harp in all but size!
Needles for strings in apt gradation!
Minerva's self would stigmatize
The unclassic profanation.

Even her 'own' needle that subdued
Arachne's rival spirit,
Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,
Such honour could not merit.

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,
A living lord of melody!
How will her Sire be reconciled
To the refined indignity?

I spake, when whispered a low voice,
"Bard! moderate your ire;
Spirits of all degrees rejoice
In presence of the lyre.

The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays,
Have shells to f...

William Wordsworth