If We Could Read The Secret History

As Great Pythagoras Of Yore, Standing Beside The Blacksmith's Door, And Hearing The Hammers, As They Smote The Anvils With A Different Note, Stole From The Varying Tones, That Hung Vibrant On Every Iron Tongue, The Secret Of The Sounding Wire. And Formed The Seven-chorded Lyre.

Such Was The Wreck Of The Hesperus, In The Midnight And The Snow! Christ Save Us All From A Death Like This, On The Reef Of Norman's Woe!

These Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers.

Never Idle A Moment, But Thrifty And Thoughtful Of Others.

Peace! And No Longer From Its Brazen Portals The Blast Of War's Great Organ Shakes The Skies! But Beautiful As Songs Of The Immortals, The Holy Melodies Of Love Arise.