The Lyre

At birth it was Our Lord
Who struck for me a single chord
Whose sorrow it was my own to hear
From so holy a haunted sphere.
A single note by shade imbued:
A lament for the grave in solitude,
For surely death's reach did inspire
The sorrow of that lyre.
For surely dusk's dying fire
Lit the sorrow of that lyre.

O! In that note woe bedight
Dwelt the presence of strange light
Whose shine then taught and defined
What would one day be my mind.

Dancing shadows in my newborn eyes
Became the stars of unknown skies.
And bathed in their majestic choir
I heeded the sorrow of the lyre,
My first tears to the immortal fire
In the sorrow of the lyre.