The Eolian Harp

O take that airy harp from out the gale,
Its troubles call from such a distant bourne,
Now that the wind has wooed it to its tale
Of bygone bliss, that never can return;
Hark! with what dreamy sadness it is swelling!
How sweet it falls, unwinding from the breeze!
Disordered music, deep and tear-compelling,
Like siren-voices pealing o'er the seas.
Nay, take it not, for now my tears are stealing,
But when it brake upon my mirthful hour,
And spake to joy of sorrow past the healing,
I shrank beneath the soft subduing power;
Nay, take it not; replace it by my bower —
The soul can thrill with no diviner feeling.