Singer's Prayer

In prone obeisance to furies wild

Who wrack the frame with pain, dread fever's child,

Are sleeping now the pillared harmonies

That vowed to sound in cadence with the seas.

Storm-nights and tempest-mornings moored in Thee,

Though conscious not, half-drugged through dream I see

Above, the shadow gaunt aloof, away,

And yet I am the player and the play.

I am music writing on the page

I am the harp untuned as yet, the Mage

Has hardly with his instrument begun,

Before the song's set free Thou must be won.