The Magic Wand

As an April garden
Breathes the scent of rain—
Rain that calls her treasures
Back to life again—
So my spirit quickens to the opening strain.

In its sheath of darkness
Fancy's folded wing
Thrills and stirs and quivers
To another spring,
When the bow is drawn across the trembling string.

In their grave of silence,
In their husk and core,
Dreams that winter buried
Feel the sap once more
Running warm and vital, as it ran before.

Into secret chambers
Where old passions sleep,
Through the long-closed shutters,
Lights of morning creep:
Through the opening doorway airs of morning sweep.

Hope resurgent, and Youth,
With their dancing train,
Mingled grief and glory,
Blended bliss and pain,
Ecstasies and agonies, come forth and live again.

Wizard hand that summoned
Each forgotten ghost,
Plays like wind or water
With the spell-bound host,
Sailing seas supernal, for no earthly coast.

Yet no magic music
That an ear can mark
Draws them winging upward
Through the mist and dark,
As the sky at sunrise draws the mounting lark.

Through the poet-spirit,
Touched with heavenly fire,
Heavenly voices whisper
In the wood and wire.
God is the musician, and my soul the lyre.