Through the harmonies of heaven stole a note of throbbing pain,
Touched with longing, tinged with sadness, seeming human in its birth;
Seeming less the stainless music that is meet for such domain
Than the cry of some dazed mortal, yearning backward toward the earth.

But it did not sound for ever, this stray note so passionate;
Soon the singer, now all-angel, sang with others round the throne:
“Glory, glory!” Past, forgotten, life and love beyond the gate,
That before had set his singing to a tragic undertone.

Yet there vanished then a richness more than psaltery or lute
Could outpour, though seraphs plucked them, worshiping the Lord anear;
For within that vibrant grieving, now for ever hushed and mute,
Lay the pathos of endeavor, hope and heartbreak, love and fear;
Yea, the wistful human groping, and the doubt that makes it dear.